Midnight Rose
by HeadIntheCloudsForever
Summary: Belle is trapped in the Beast's castle in exchange for sparing her father's life. A twist on the classic tale as old as time, Belle slowly begins to develop feelings for the master of the castle, but her hand in marriage has already been promised to Gaston Dupont, the local war hero...
1. Prologue

It was rumored that in the time of the elders a wise fairy, who was older than any other was, made a book of rules. The story goes that when the fairies obeyed the book, there was nothing but peace, prosperity and love. They grew closer in their bonds to nature and their society was great. They blossomed in their creativity and it was a time when many magic spells were invented. New magic! Imagine that! It was the golden era. Now things are still good, but the story tells of a time when the book will be found and the fairy people will once again walk in their perfect ways, as it should always be.

Fairies are those of pure heart, those given magic by the Creator to help them survive. They are timid, seeking to hide as their first means of protection. A long time ago, they tried to help humankind, to teach us to be more like them…yet experience taught them to stay well away—there was money to be made in their capture and extortion. These days, the fairy folk hide in plain sight, walking among us—for fairies are not as small as they once were, thanks to interspecies breeding. They have arisen many times from our common ancestors and can be of any appearance. Should you ever find one you have a choice to become a guardian of their kind or an enemy? Should you chose the former, the first rule is "Never let them know that you know," even to seek confirmation would send the fairy into an absolute panic.

The creature that stood in front of me was a remarkable sight. I made a face and scrunched my nose in disgust, taking a step back away from the thing that threatened to kill me, or at least that is the look it was giving off. The creature was huge and grotesque with matted hair and huge twisting horns protruding upwards into the dark midnight sky. The contorted figure eclipsed the moon. It stood on its knotted haunches and stooped as its wrinkled face stared at me. Beasts are not unhappy once they let go of the light. They have the thrill of the kill, the satisfaction of consuming their prey. They have no second voice, no positive force to bother them, asking them to be good. They have a peace of mind that humans do not. They do not feel empathy for their victims, or guilt for keeping what is theirs. Greed is good, power is might, and might is right, or so the saying goes. The beast standing in front of me gave off an aura of pure hate and evil expressed in its dull blue eyes. This creature had been human once. A prince, who was spoiled, selfish and unkind, and as punishment, a beautiful enchantress transformed the thing into a beast. Now, all that remained of him was nothing but a monster. The beast's fur was matted and congealed, covered in burs and tangled. His breath hot and rancid, his claw marks leaving indentations on the stones in his gardens as he irritably paced, back and forth he went.

Over the years, what little shred of humanity was left in the prince in his monstrous form slowly began to wither away, with his only window to the outside world a magic mirror and an enchanted rose, which would bloom until his twenty-first year, and if he could earn the love of another by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. However, if not, he would be doomed to remain a beast forever. His punishment for refusing the beautiful enchantress shelter from the bitter cold, revealing to the sorceress that the prince held no love or compassion in his heart. As the years passed, he fell into despair. For who could ever learn to love a beast? The beast came to me in his rose garden, interrupting my stream of steady thoughts as I pondered how I ended up in this predicament. I had sacrificed my freedom, my life, all so that my father might be spared. When the creature speaks, his voice is deep, baritone, and smooth. "I am sorry you were abandoned. Let me take you in. I can be your sanctuary, your shield from the world. I can take away the keen sting of betrayal. You can have revenge, power, money, riches, whatever you want, it is yours," he snarled through his teeth, baring his canines in a vicious sneer as he paced the gardens in front of me. "Just be my Belle and the world will fall at your feet, princess."

I heard the sweet song of the beast, how well he cast darkness, made it so pretty that it looked just like the moonlight. Nevertheless, what he spun could never match the warmth of a spring day, the beauty of a simple flower, a single rose. I shook my head. "I am not abandoned, I never was. My father never left me, not even for a second, beast, and he stands by my side even now, though Papa is not here with me! I would never walk with a beast unless it was a crucial part of slaying it," I growled, balling my hands into fists, taking notice of the monster's eyes flashed cold at my words. I was offending him. Good. After what he took from me, let the creature suffer, rot in eternity for all time. "Revenge is cold; power is an infection, money an illusion. The only real thing in this world is love and a beast can never know what is!" I shouted, turning away for a moment to compose myself. Angrily, I tossed my dark hair over my shoulder and turned for the beast's reply, but he was gone, returned to the darkness where he was most comfortable.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel his servants watching me, scrutinizing the beast's latest attempt to socialize. I shake my head no and glower at them, silently fuming. Because of the beast, I am a prisoner here.

I glance around the beast's castle and sigh. Of all the places to be held captive, it is not a bad prison. The prince—or should I call him Beast—had never been out of his palace or its grounds. For him, all floors were marble. What else would they be? All the stair rails were ornate mahogany, carved and polished so that it shined. Furniture was handmade by master artisans. A single-family portrait was painted in oil and hung in a magnificent gold frame at the end of the East Wing, near my bedchambers. His palace was high upon the hill overlooking the little village, its many pointed towers giving it the look of an eccentric crown. The walls were a white stone that glistened in the sunlight and the roof was gray slate. It was as big as twenty of the ordinary houses in the village that I came from. Around the palace were the horse pastures and kitchen gardens for the royal family. In this case, just the prince and I, and around that was a stone wall topped with iron spikes and guarded day and night.

There was no hope of escape for me. Though the gardens were peaceful and fragrant, smelling of roses and jasmine and lavender in winter now that I was alone, perhaps now is the time for me to relax, make my peace with God, but my anger is the only thing that's keeping me alive right now. I am cold, colder than I have ever been inside. My mind wanders and it takes me back to earlier today. I remember staring out of the window in my bedchamber. I would stare at the blankets of snow embedded across the vast land. I thought it was beautiful. Beautiful because when I looked at the sky and saw the purity of the untouched clouds, I saw it as a new beginning. When the clouds let down its pure to paint the ground in endless piles of white, it was as if God was forgiving us for all our mistakes for us to become pure again. I dreamt the snow being soft and warm. To cover me in comfort and protect from this palace, this world that is now my hellish life. A prisoner here, held captive by a beast.

I touched the window with the tip of my wandering hands and I found that it was cold. The window became torture when I did not see a new beginning, but miles of frozen water packed across the land to trap me here.

To keep me in this place. I am trapped here, but my mind is not, and it never gets too far away from me. The Beast cannot keep me here; no matter how hard he tries.

My name is Belle, and this is my story…


	2. Chapter One: A Beauty But a Funny Girl

The familiar sight of the town was made hazy by a mist, and for a moment, Belle raised a hand to her face to check to ensure that her headscarf was still there. It was. This de-focused world was there for everyone and not just reserved for her. It was cold too; billions of icy vaporized drops blew down her neck and travelled through her simple dress. It didn't just slowly drain her body heat; it stole it the second it made contact. She hated being poor. Belle had dressed for the day's chores in a simple long white chemise with short-capped sleeves and a sleeveless blue overdress over top that. It was not much, but it was all she had.

The trees surrounding their little village were veiled in the lightest of mists, their trunks a somber brown with sable cracks that gnarled the bark. As her eye traveled the edge of the woodland, they became silhouettes against a blanket of white, as if it were only daylight where Belle stood, as if she were encircled in twilight's loving embrace for all eternity. The fog swooped in and skirted around the houses and the trees, moving indiscriminately to eradicate what once was there into something that was not. Belle stood in a pocket of it, but it only seemed like a pocket to her. She knew that she too, was swallowed, eradicated by this enveloping whiteness.

It hurt her eyes, it was so…white. Staring at it made her feel like she was staring at herself staring at nothing. Belle's mind fought hard to drum up a thousand different descriptions to plaster across it. But there was nothing that could truly describe nothing. Each thought she had seemed loud and exposed, just like every movement she made in the silence that wrapped like the fog around her. Maybe the fog was somehow in her, just as she was in it this cold morning.

As she wandered into town, she could not help but smile to herself as she watched the people of their little village wake up and go about their day, screeching and shouting, heedless of the gift it was to simply be them, to be...dare she think it? _Normal_. Belle was anything but normal. She was an outcast. Her face show in the watery light in their little village in France. It burst in beams through the almost complete cloud layer above to cast transitory spotlights. Her features were typical of her family in northern France, but here they marked her out as a stranger. Her pale features untouched by the sun, considered beautiful back home, were alarming to the creatures who had spent their whole lives in the sun.

Belle was a beautiful young woman. Her brown hair fell past her shoulders, the brown of aged mahogany, rich and deep, yet with the subtle hues only time brings. With each stride, the strands tumbled, reflecting the strengthening daylight in pure waves, softly reflecting the sun, each strand moving freely in an ocean born breeze, a compliment to her stillness. Her hair was a lovely whisky, the color of fallen leaves browned and sleek with the first rains of autumn. How such a tint could play with the light, like peering at the sun through a jar of pine honey. Moreover, Belle's eyes—how the villagers could talk of nothing but her eyes and her hair. In those earthy hues of Belle's was her soul, with the kind of beauty that expands a moment into a personal eternity, a heaven you could only wish to be a part of, simply to be around Belle. Her eyes were a deep, earthy brown—the color of the earth after a torrential rain. However, there was something else in them, something glistening. A longing for more out of life. Belle's eyes held secrets, the same way a pot holds layers of deep soil—cradling because it was essential to keep the plant safe. The roots are held in place the same way her dark, liquid eyes held so tightly onto her secrets.

Belle was not at all like the simple-minded folk of their town. Their eyes were smaller than hers and the mouths meaner, thinner lipped and often elongated. However, the people in the village had what she and her father, Maurice, needed to survive the week, and so she ventured into town, subconsciously bringing forth the charm that came to her without trying back at home. _Was our home_, her mind corrected. _Paris is your home now, this little town_. _Get used to it. _

The town was a maze of narrow winding streets, as complex as the heart. The streets were the veins, paved with dark red stones, and the people of the village were the blood. The sound of the smiths, beating swords and breastplates into shape, was the consistent and dull pounding that let you know the town was alive and well. After weaving through the labyrinth of roads, the paths into converged and unveiled into the town square. Flocks of pigeons gathered everywhere; their numbers delighted the common folk as they huddled around the birds, and either fed them crumbs or shooed them away. A sea of people, of all ages, filled the square. Many shot Belle odd glances as she passed. Occasionally a few would speak to her, but it was always the same list of questions, from the same folk, as always.

"Buy a roll, Belle?"

"How's your father, Belle? What trinket is he working on this time? Come to us again if he blows up the house, girl!"

"Have you said yes to Gaston yet? No? Why not?"

"What's wrong with you? Any girl would be the luckiest girl in the world to have someone as handsome and as wealthy as Gaston after their hand in marriage. You're crazy!"

Belle cringed and tried to ignore the last two questions.

Back home, in their home of Northwich, she does not have an accent. In the hills, the way she talked was as common as the shingles they covered their house roofs with, but here in this little country village, it marked her as an outsider. With her simple brown dress and clean appearance, she looked just as most other girls in the village did—the same dark eyes, although paler skin and a fairer face.

Still, they ignored her until she must speak, then she watches as their eyes harden as they try to drop the trade negotiation and move onto someone with more money.

_They are the ones with an accent_, she thought darkly.

Where Belle's voice rolls, they bark. Where her inflections rise at the end of a sentence, theirs are flat.

They think her speech is a sign of higher intelligence and rudeness. They think she talks down to them when she speaks to them, though it is neither. All the folks in the village came from the country just a generation or two ago, they just like to forget that part. Belle forced a kind smile and walked.

She paused for a moment before entering her favorite shop, Monsieur Levi's library, the only bookstore in Paris.

The bookshelves of his shop seemed like they would collapse any moment under the pressure of the numerous books stuffed into them. Each one with a label, organized in neat rows on the shelves. All four walls of the little room were covered with shelves, leaving only a small gap in the middle for the door. In the middle of the room was a table and a chair. A slumped figure sat on the chair. The huge piles of books on his table cast a heavy shadow on him. His face never looked up from the book and his hands stopped writing, though he took the time to call out a cheery, "Bonjour Mademoiselle. If it isn't Belle, my favorite customer! How is old Maurice?" he called out cordially.

"How did you know it was me?" she grinned.

The bookkeeper paused, looking amused. He peered over at her through the rim of his spectacles. "My dear, who else would be standing in my shop at six thirty in the morning? You and one other woman are my only customers, I'm afraid," he said, with a note of sadness in his kind tone.

A constant sound of quill scratching against parchment echoed through the room. Wrinkles were spread all over his face making his skin look like an old walnut. His hands were swollen and red. His gray hair lay in a mess, uncombed and uncut from many days of tirelessly working. Dark circles formed rings around his eyes. Still, he endured and went on. He was forever lost in his book, struggling to keep up with his shop's accounts. He was the sole and only bookkeeper.

Belle was intrigued at the mention of this other woman.

"Another woman, Monsieur Levi?" she teased, quirking a delicate brow towards the old man, who at last looked up from his work to shoot the young brunette a kind smile.

He nodded, the corners of his mouth stretching into an unnaturally wide grin. "Believe it, milady. She is…a lot like you, only this one is a blonde-haired woman. Tiny little thing. I think you would like her. Perhaps the next time you are in town, I'll introduce you."

"If she reads, I like her already. What is her name? Perhaps she and I will become best friends!" Belle laughed delightedly. The inventor's daughter scoured the bookshop, running a hand over the book's spines, feeling them, looking for something new to read. The books wait to speak their words to her, their ink on papery leaves that will always stay even though centuries may pass. They invited a conversation with the thoughts; one unspoken and kind—for one can always walk away from a book if one chooses, and return when ready. In a way, they are the legacy of their author's thoughts, preserving ideas that would otherwise be as fleeting as a song of a bird. One book in particular caught her eye.

The book was old and heavy, the leather felt soft and delicate as she ran her fingers over the faded black bindings. She fingered the gold letting carefully before she opened the cover, the paper rustling as she thumbed through the book to find what she was looking for. Words appeared and disappeared as her eyes flitted across the pages, quickly picking out anything of importance from the jumble of sentences that littered the world Belle had immersed herself.

Another book caught her attention, this one bright red. Belle opened the aged book. It smelled warm and dusty, like the inside of an attic. The fragile old pages almost became delicate snowflakes with the touch of her hand. Most people would have left this book without as much as a backwards glance, but Belle was enthralled. She appreciated its beauty.

The book was old—maybe fifty or even two hundred years old. It was withered in its old age and tea stains ran down its pages like a black dress. Someone in the distant pass and ripped out pages and left a jagged edged page. It held the past…and it would hold the future for Belle. "Monsieur Levi, what is this book?" she called out, her French accent shy.

Monsieur Levi looked up from his work. "Oh, that one! I was wondering when you would spot that book, my child; it is perhaps the only one in this entire store you have not yet read. I think you will like it. It fits all your requirements. This is something special, milady. Your books are safe. Normal. By reading them, you get to become the characters, do you not?"

Belle nodded, captivated by the man's words. "And that book, it is not safe?" she questioned, frowning slightly.

"It is not for the likes of the faint-hearted, I will admit," he confessed, looking thoughtful, his gaze not leaving the book in Belle's hands. "But I think you can handle it. As I stated before, it fits all your needs of a good story. Fighting, romance, true love, magic. It engrosses you, absorbs you while you read it so that you are almost in a—a trance, shall we say? When you read it, you'll be transported to another place, another reality, to escape this little town and its ways."

Belle grinned. "It sounds like just what I need, now that Papa is about to leave for the fair. Reading is like an escape from reality for me, Monsieur Levi," she sighed, clutching the book close to her heart lovingly. "When I pick up a book and start reading, I get so engrossed into it that I forget any of my surroundings. My imagination takes over and I am free to fantasize about whatever I want without worrying people will judge me. It is as if I can create my own world in my mind and imagine what the characters would look like and how they act. It's crazy how much something as casual as reading can leave such on impact on the human heart," she said.

A distant sound interrupted Belle's stream of thoughts and she fell silent. Notre Dame's cathedral bells pealed in the distance, calling the faithful to worship in the morning Mass. The city awoke to the songs of Notre Dame's bells every morning, same as always. Some say the soul of the city lay in the toll of the bells of Notre Dame itself. But she didn't believe it. Belle had never once set foot in Notre Dame.

The building itself on the outside was beautiful, Gothic and romantic in its architecture, but to her, it was nothing but a cage for God. Walls cannot contain Him, and Belle had never needed a priest or archdeacon to bring Him to her.

He was inside of Belle; He was in the mountains, the rocks, the rivers. He is in the spirit of all the animals, including the humans. God was the love that made their world, the love that needed humans to cling to Him and know that we are safe with God, with Love. The earth was her church and she saw it desecrated daily. She was with God everywhere, all the time. She did not need a clergyman to forgive her; God already did that for her. Belle thought it would be more efficient for the people of Paris to take the other smaller churches and house the poor, to take the riches and feed them. The people let the devil in the doors long ago with their worship of money, gold, and power. God is not contained within those walls and she knew that her father had it right all along, what he used to tell her growing up.

"Live in peace and harmony and love, and so you shall live in peace with our Creator," Maurice was fond of saying.

Belle worshiped her gift of life by showing love and compassion to others, even those who were rude to her. She did not need a shepherd. She was a lioness. She could feel His light within her and it helped her to say no to things that were wrong or harmful. God gave her the confidence to walk her own path with Love as her guide.

"I must go, or else I will be late. I promised Papa I'd be home in time to help him put the latest touches on his newest invention, and if I'm late, he'll never let me hear the end of it, I'm afraid," she apologized, glancing down at the book still clutched in her hands. "May I borrow this, Monsieur Levi? I promise to return it soon. You'll have it back in three days!"

The old bookkeeper chuckled. "Keep it, Belle."

Belle stared. "But sir, I—I cannot! This is yours!"

"If you like it all that much, it is yours. I insist."

"Well, thank you! Thank you very much!" she exclaimed, opening the door and stepped out again in the misty cold of Paris, her new book clutched in her hand, her nose already buried within the first pages, losing herself in another world.

She'd barely made it a hundred yards before a man's voice behind her spoke up, startling her out of her moment alone with Prince Nicolas, already in chapter three. Annoyed at the interruption, Belle looked up and immediately wished that she hadn't. "Gaston," she sighed, defeated. "What can I do for you this morning? I cannot stay long, I'm afraid I have to get back to my father and—hey, may I have my book back please?" she scowled, quirking her brow at the hunter.

Irritated at the lack of attention the handsome hunter was getting from the inventor's daughter, he thumbed through the first few pages of her new book. "Ugh, how can you read this garbage?" he growled. "No pictures, Belle!"

She sighed in frustration. "Some people use their imaginations, Gaston. Something you clearly lack, I see."

As Belle looked up at the hunter and owner of the only tavern in the town, she couldn't help but feel a stab of annoyance at Gaston for ruining her reading moment.

Gaston was tall, with tousled dark brown hair, which was thick and lustrous, currently pulled back into a low neat ponytail. His eyes were a mesmerizing deep ocean blue, flecks of silvery light performed ballets throughout. His face was strong and defined, his features molded from granite. Gaston had dark eyebrows, which sloped downwards in a serious expression as he scrutinized the inventor's daughter's habit of reading in her spare time, a pastime he deemed inappropriate.

His usually playful smile had drawn into a hard line across his face. His perfect lips ripe for kissing, although Belle would leave that task happily to the other village girls, all of whom would be too happy to kiss Gaston. Unfortunately, Gaston had his sights only on one woman: Belle. Though she despised the man, when he looked at her, she couldn't help but blush a little, and she hated herself for that fact. His body was warm and toned as he pulled Belle in for a hug, his hard, lean muscle comforting to the touch despite the tenseness that Belle felt as her body stiffened at being so close to him.

When he spoke to her, his voice was deep, solemn.

His lips brushed against her ear as he spoke, "You know Belle, and the whole town is talking about you, spreading rumors. It isn't right for a woman, a beautiful woman no less, to read. Soon she starts getting ideas and thinking, and before you know it, you're over the age of fifty, unmarried, and a spinster like poor old Jacqueline because no one would have her. You don't want to go the way of Jacqueline, Belle, no?"

Belle sulked, her brow knitted together as she glowered at the hunter, who remained completely oblivious to her dislike of his boorish, rude personality. "No, I don't," she admitted, surprised to hear herself confess it to Gaston of all people. She brushed a lock of brown hair back behind her ear and snatched her book from Gaston's hands while he was preoccupied, having caught sight of his reflection in a nearby mirror. "Please, Gaston, I must take my leave of you now."

"Going somewhere, Belle?" he challenged hotly.

"I—I have to get home to help my father," she said, her eyes darting wildly around the marketplace, looking for an escape, anything to be free of Gaston and his endless pride.

"Would you like me to escort you home?" he asked.

"N—no thank you, I can—I can get there myself," she said, a little too quickly and bolted far away from Gaston and his massive ego. "And good riddance," she muttered under her breath. "Stay away from me, Gaston Dupont, if you know what's good for you. Papa would never agree to the match anyways, so why don't you stick with the village girls?"

Belle smiled to herself as the sound of her father's shouts and something crashing to the floor reached her ears. Perhaps he had thrown something in a fit of anger again. She would find out. Coughing at all the smoke that filled their cellar, she pinched her nose and climbed down the stairs to her father.

"Papa!" she called out worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm all right," he muttered darkly through gritted teeth, emerging from underneath his latest contraption, a device meant for chopping wood automatically. "But this—this piece of garbage isn't!" he bellowed, irate, kicking it.

"Oh, Papa," Belle sighed, coming over to her father and laying a reassuring hand on her father's shoulder. "You'll get it to work. And just in time for the fair tomorrow, where you'll win first prize!" she chirped cheerily, and her heart wished with all her might that he would. If he won, the prize money would be enough to carry them through the rest of their lives with no worries. They could move out of this little village and somewhere better, somewhere far away, where the villagers were like her, inquisitive, with a thirst for knowledge.

Maurice looked at his daughter, and Belle felt her heart swell with so much love and affection she thought it might burst. Maurice was an old man, but she could see the young boy in him still yearning for something else, something new. It was as if his soul ached for an experience that this world simply could not provide for him. On the other hand, maybe that inner boy waited for a time to put down the mask of sanguine resilience and be himself all over again, playful and silly, the person that her mother had fallen in love with, as Maurice was fond of telling Belle. Belle could see the worry lines and how they made crosses with those of joy, the boy his parents had welcomed and the man the world asked for, the one who would love to rise and the one who would love to rest. He was her father. Maurice had long since forgotten what it felt like to have joints that moved freely, without pain. An occupational hazard of being an inventor, he teased.

The map of wrinkles on his face told of the most incredible journey. His eye lines told of laughter, of warm smiles and affection. His forehead told of worries past and worries present. But mostly they were so deeply engrained, they told of a man who had traveled through six decades to that moment, to stand here as an old man, beaten and forlorn. To be dismissed as "old" when he was so much more than the sum of his parts was almost cruel. His aches were his constant companions, not friends, but always with him as Maurice aged. His memories both warmed and haunted him, sometimes drawing a smile and other times a tear. Moreover, time was the thief he had always suspected her to be, taking his wife, his friends. Everybody seemed to want a long life, but what good is it if your life partners are dead? He had Belle, and every time he looked at her, he was reminded of his wife, his Esme, and he loved her for that. Maurice would describe being an old man as like bobbing on an ocean in a boat, not knowing when death will finally come to sever the rope that binds you to shore, that bonded him to this earthly coil. When the wizened old inventor would describe his life, Belle was instantly transported to another place and time. His voice was slow and he stumbled on his words at times. Sometimes, he was overtaken by emotions that had been buried for decades and he would have to pause in mid-sentence. When he gesticulated, it was with the creak of age in his bones. At times, he would seem excited to tell Belle a tale of his life. Other times, he seemed like he was honoring a solemn duty to remember the fallen, his Esme, of whom Belle only knew a little bit about, only fragments, snippets of their life together before she had come along. Supposedly, Esme had died in childbirth giving birth to Belle, but Maurice would get this look in her eyes when he spoke of her, as if he did not fully believe it himself. It would instill a sense of hope in Belle. After speaking for a time, he would often nod off into an evening nap, and Belle would tuck him in under a quilt Esme had made for him before heading into another room.

Maurice huffed in frustration and wiped a beat of sweat from his brow, collapsing into his chair. "I need a break anyways, love," he admitted, looking tired. "Here, come sit."

Her father pulled up a chair and bade her sit next to him.

"Thank you, Papa," she muttered, still clutching her book in her hands. Belle leaned over to give him a gentle kiss. "I know you have what it takes within to finish your invention, and you'll win first prize at the fair tomorrow!"

Maurice's face froze. His mouth was slightly turned down, his eyebrows curved downwards too; he looked like he was ready to cry—just looked like that though. He was a strong man, he did not usually cry over sheer exhaustion. His face showed feelings of sorrow, feelings of regret for forcing his daughter to live a life of solitariness and poverty.

Then he sighed, his brown eyes twinkling mischievously.

"I saw you talking to that Gaston fellow on the way home. He is a handsome fellow, isn't he, Belle? I take it by that look in your eyes; you've turned him down, yet again, my daughter? That's what, the third time he's asked?" he asked.

Belle groaned in frustration, rolling her eyes. "Oh, he's handsome all right, Papa. And rude and boorish, and…oh, Papa, he's not for me," she sighed, brushing back a lock of hair. "I just don't deserve someone like that in my life."

Maurice regarded his daughter for a moment.

"Belle, I'm getting older. I know, hard to believe, isn't it?" he chuckled, but then his smile faltered and he fell serious again. "I cannot take care of you forever. I just want you to be happy, to find a nice man to spend the rest of your life with. Love is when you can't focus on anything except for that one person. Love is feeling as if you cannot breathe until they hold you. Love is when you're looking for that special someone in a room huddled with people. Love is when you feel like anything's possible with you're with him. If you are ever fortunate enough to find that special someone in your life one day, as I was blessed to have with my Esme, let your lover be for your heart and not your ego. Choose him for his soul, for his wish to protect you, his soft hands that reflect his true self," he said. "Choose him for his quiet warmth; not the burning of one who possesses, not the chill of one who is further away than it appears. If you are a light upon a grassy hill, let him be a light on that same hill, content to shine for you as you shine for one. One who would cover your light must leave; one who would strive to outshine you so that you feel so dull seeks no company, only to support a failing ego. One who guards with a jealous heart will always make it so that around you all appears dark, as if there is no reason to shine, or foolish to do so. So let your lover be the light next to you, each able to shine however God intends them to, company for each other, sharing their light freely, joyously, Belle."

Belle smiled, feeling her eyes get misty. "Oh, Papa."

"I know what you're thinking," he said suddenly. "That no man is good enough for you, and that you are good enough for no man, but that is absolutely not true, Belle. To have a great romantic relationship, first you must learn how to be alone. And I know that you are a bit of an expert on the subject," he said, his face crestfallen. "I know this move from Northwich to Paris has been hard on you, but I really think it is a change that is for the better. You are around people your own age. And before you think of finding a man, you must truly be yourself and able to love and hold onto who you are, and so must your partner. Otherwise, you both fall as you seek to please and keep the other in fear of losing them, crippled by a—a fear of being alone. Master that, feel solid ground and anything is possible for you, Belle. Remember."

"How could I forget, Papa?" she grinned, embracing him in a gentle hug. Her face etched into one of mock sternness. "Now what do you say you and I finish your work so it's ready for the fair tomorrow?" she asked, biting her lip.

Maurice grinned. "You would help your old man and get your hands dirty?" he teased, showing her his hands, which were covered in grime, dirt and soot. They were filthy.

Belle laughed, kneeling down on the floor next to her father as he resumed his work. "Until the end of time, Papa."


	3. Chapter Two: To Take His Place

Time slowed for Belle once more, as if her brain needed a keepsake to give her strength in the quiet, boring days to come with her father and their horse, Philippe, on the road to the fair. They would be gone three days.

"Safe travels, Papa," she encouraged, leaning up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. She turned to their horse and fed him a carrot. "And you too, Philippe. Take care of Papa for me, won't you?" she crooned lovingly, stroking the horse's mane. "I know you won't let me down."

"Is there anything I can bring you from the fair, love?"

Belle fell silent for a moment, thinking. "A rose."

"Then a rose you shall have, daughter. You ask for the same thing every year, my child," Maurice said, amused.

Belle looked her father square in the eyes. "And you always bring it," she retorted warmly, stepping back so Philippe could have room to depart. Maurice clucked his tongue and kicked the horse into motion. A penetrating coolness trickled over the now bleak landscape. Philippe's blue roan coat matched the thick horizon ahead. His ears pricked, as the horse moved swiftly, powerful limbs tearing into the barren earth. Maurice called out one final goodbye. Belle watched her father depart and was hit with an inexplicable feeling of dread, and suddenly she wanted to call out to her father to turn around and stay, that it wasn't too late. But it already was, as her father and their horse became pinpricks in the twilight sky and vanished over the hill and into the woods to the path that would take them to the fair.

The dread crept over her like an icy chill, numbing her brain. In this frozen state, her mind only offered her one thought. Danger. There was no avoiding it. Dread crept down Belle's spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of silk. She could feel her on her feet, descending until the inventor's daughter was almost rooted to her spot. Her mind became worryingly empty. All she could do was pray things stayed quiet, and her father would return home with the prize. Then after time immeasurable, a bird sang, bringing Belle back to this moment, as if this feathered friend was the clock, the only time keeper that mattered. The musical sound was a balm to her mind, a seed of nature's peace given so freely.

"Be safe, Papa," she whispered, turning to go back inside. Nothing lay ahead of her in the quiet days ahead except for feeding the livestock, venturing into town, and of course, reading her new book. Belle's quiet days were feathers without hurry, moving this way and that in the air, happy to change direction according to the wind. Just as the feather will in its own sweet time be at rest upon the earth, so the sun will rise and set high in the sky. Yet in each gifted moment between them, there came such freedom, an infinitely branching path with no paths at all. And in that complete liberty, there was a need for the calm kind of patience, the one that is content to await the path to glow, to show itself worth of adventure, of curiosity and of enchantment for her. Belle loved the quiet days, the ones of reading and birdsong. She loved the random sounds that came sailing in the breeze; the birdsong would come so sweetly, almost tangible, as if it were softly spun sugar. She would sit there upon the clouds that were her dreams until, as the ones above are so prone to do; they condensed to form the random ideas that quenched her mind. It was on those quiet days that ideas came as natural things do—from the sunshine, rain and earth. Belle sometimes took her book and read out on the meadow's hill, feeling nothing but the breeze and the air around her as she lost herself in her story. It was only in the stillness of the late evening that she could sometimes swear she would hear a woman calling her name. Was it Mama?

She would walk to the edge of the meadow and gaze out over the hills, squinting to see far beyond the horizon of their little village and its countryside. The ocean surrounding moved and the wind blew, but to her, everything stopped. In that extended moment, all Belle could do was close her eyes and listen. Her mind became at peace. Her mother was not dead, not gone—just out of her reach for now.

* * *

The Beast paced his castle restlessly, his claw marks leaving indentations on the floor in the West Wing of his palace. The darkness of his castle was his cradle, and from here, he can preserve his skin, hoard his riches. In this chamber, this crypt, the beast felt power surging through his claws to his blue eyes—the only thing left of him that even resembled his last shred of humanity. Tomorrow is another day to be the ruler of hell, another day to watch his servants wither away, losing hope as the curse continued to go unbroken. But the Beast had deemed it a lost cause.

No woman in her right mind would ever love him.

The further he went into the darkness, the more the light burned him. The longer he lived without it bringing color to his world, the more he came to love the blackness. Perhaps there was a time that he could have saved his soul from this eternal damnation of spending the rest of his life as a monster, that he did not have to become a beast, but he was one now. From this dark pit, this terrible pit where not an ounce of light shined, he called others to follow him. The Beast had no wish to be lonely. He wanted to be master of this dark place, the one who has power and control. How could he have either if there was no one to be his partners in pain and cruelty, for he had long abandoned the hope of saving his damned soul. He would never be a human again.

The reward for following the Beast is to learn the joy of inflicting pain, the love of power and the ability to remain indifferent as others suffered. Think how strong his servants would become with no voice telling them not to harm, not to kill those who would come into this castle, plunderers and robbers? His people could be kings, mighty, crushing all the Beast's enemies underneath their feet. There is no right and wrong in the Beast's world, only what you can and cannot do.

His people were born to be a beast like him. Come closer, let him close the door behind you, and embrace it…

The Beast shook his head irritably to clear away such thoughts. He clung to what last little shred of humanity was left, but he became more Beast as the days passed. He lay hunched in the brooding West Wing. He was as large as a bear on its hind legs and with jaws just as powerful. His brown fur was matted and tangled, the claws he held at the ready looked borrowed from some prehistoric predator, they were twelve inches to the tip and sharper than a butcher knife. He squinted his blue eyes toward the dappled shade of his rose garden, his prize in his entire castle, and tensed his muscles, ready to pounce and fly into a rage as he caught sight of an old man picking one of his precious red roses.

That sunlight would be murder on his delicate skin and almost unprotected retinas. He stifled a growl in the back of his throat. There was no point in trying to deny what he was.

His servants and the rest of the world can call him beastly, devil, whatever name they wanted. It is in the nature of a beast to be a beast. It was fun for him too. Don't you love the thrill of the kill? Don't you love to chase an animal only to snuff it out? Why deny your baser natures? It is the first nature any beast gets, and he was no exception—survive, hunt, kill. It's kill or be killed in this violent world, these dark times. There is joy in power, in dominating, in making others subservient to his will. Who wouldn't want that? A beast is just another of nature's fine animals. Morals are for the weak, those not strong enough to seize power for themselves. They await a Godly force to save them, on inspire them to a bloodless victory. Even that was a tool for the Beast.

How simple it was to kill in the name of God.

Perhaps that made him his servants' God. Perhaps it is the beast they wanted, to blame for all their hardships, suffering a lifetime of a horrible curse of a beautiful enchantress. The Beast stalked the old man in his gardens.

He let out a guttural roar and a string of curses unraveled from his tongue, like yarn unfurling, as he advanced on the old man who had stolen one of his precious roses. The old man turned and opened his mouth to scream, but he could not. Every step the beast took rattled Maurice's bones and struck his heart. He tried to dodge a swing from its massive claws, but it struck his side and he tumbled into the dirt. He could hear nothing, all was silenced, the beast's roars, all inaudible as the ringing in his ears vibrated, disorienting him.

All Maurice could do was feel. Feel the cold ground pressed against his form, the heat from the pain, and the growling of the monster hovering over his weak form that would signal his end. He looked upwards into the stars. He fought valiantly against this creature from Hell's gate, and he prayed that wherever his Esme was, she would accept him and take him home. He closed his eyes as he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. Maurice opened his eyes, and through the darkness of the rose garden came the glow of two blue eyes. They moved with a slight sway, as if the unseen body prowled like a cat. Maurice stopped. The eyes did not, with rapid acceleration and a more bounding motion; they came right for poor old Maurice. In less than two seconds, he was on his back, gasping for air that was not there, his shoulder claws and bleeding profusely through his tunic and cloak.

Maurice held his hand to the slash, but no matter the pressure he applied, the blood still gushed between his fingers and oozed onto his hand. The bright red quickly darkened, taking on a brownish hue. He felt nothing at all, as the beast seized his uninjured arm and dragged him away to a place unknown. Time itself had become irrelevant; the seconds could have been hours, or hour's mere seconds. In that suspended moment, he was the eye of his own storm, but for that moment of perfect clam and mental clarity, he paid repeatedly in the years to come. The blood from his shoulder didn't gush in a constant flow, but in time with Maurice's heart. At first, it came thick and strong, flowing through his fingers as they clasped the ripped flesh of his right shoulder.

He felt the blood move over his hand, the thick fluid no warmer or cooler than his own skin. Maurice hoped that Philippe was on his way home to Belle. If it were not for the fork in the path and those godforsaken wolves, they would have made it. After a few moments, the blood was still leaving his paling flesh, but his pulses were slower, weaker, fading…Maurice's last thought before he blacked out was that he hoped that Philippe had made it home to Belle…

* * *

Every time Gaston opened his mouth, Belle got angrier. He would prattle on about his good looks, and the man had the nerve to barge into her home unannounced, interrupting her precious reading time, and begin to make demands of her.

At first, she would swallow her retort and go alone with it, just smile and move on. The sooner you put up with Gaston's antics, the sooner you can kick him out of your house. However, that only made it worse. Then he felt empowered to micromanage every little aspect of her life, every damn thing done his own damn way. White knuckles from clenching her fist too hard, and gritted teeth from effort to remain silent, her form stiffened and exuded an animosity that was like acid—burning, slicing, potent. Her face was white with suppressed rage, and when Gaston even set a finger on her shoulder, she swung around and snapped.

"Picture it, Belle," he was saying, propping his disgusting feet up on her table. "A rustic hunting lodge, a warm fire in the hearth, my latest kill roasting over the fire, and you, my pretty little wife, massaging my shoulders and watch as the little ones play on the floor with the dogs. We'll have six."

"Dogs?" she asked, biting her lip hopefully, internally screaming. She knew where she was going with this.

"No, Belle," he laughed, daring to lay a large hand on her other shoulder. "Strapping young boys, like me. Children."

"I—I don't know what to say, Gaston!" Every word out of her mouth stung, only fueling the fire that burned inside of her. Every violated phrase was like setting fire to oil, her fists began to clench and her jaw rooted. "I—I don't deserve a man like you, Gaston, I—I'm not good enough for you!"

Belle barely had any time to react as Gaston slammed his lips to hers and nearly knocked all the wind from her lungs. He pressed his tongue to the seam of her lips and delved into her mouth despite her every effort to fight his embrace. It was a very sloppy kiss with the strong scent of old wine being exchanged in the intermingling of their breaths. Belle, disgusted, recoiled away from his touch, her cheeks pink and flushed with color, and angrily shoved him out the door.

Belle shuddered as a tremor of revulsion went down her spine at the fact that the hunter had kissed her. She could only describe his kiss as sloppy and wet. She had no desire to come back for another kiss than she did to kiss Philippe. His tongue had been something like a muscular eel worming its way into her mouth and when she broke apart, she had to fight the urge to wipe his thick saliva from around her lips and vomit at the man's feet. How she hated Gaston.

"Get out, Gaston!" she bellowed. "I can't marry you! I never want to see you near my doorstep again, and you—"

She shoved him again and he fell backwards into the dirt. Belle cringed, realizing now she was in for it as the man's temper flared and his cheeks flushed red with anger. Belle hadn't meant to push him so hard, but there was a small part of her that was not entirely displeased with the outcome. Her voice trailed off at the scene in her backyard. Words left her. She stared briefly into Gaston's eyes burning with anger, and her heart fell silent and her blood ran cold. Her backyard buzzed with excited chatter and children ran between tables in a good-natured game of tag. Applause spread across the garden at the sight of Belle in the doorway. There were cheers and someone whooped, another catcalled as Belle angrily tossed her dark hair back over her shoulder. There was the scraping of chairs as they got up for a standing ovation. After a few moments, the toastmaster, a short, stubby man Belle recognized as Gaston's goon and best friend, LeFou, rose from his chair and everyone sat down, the chattering dying out slowly as he began to speak.

The sound of his teaspoon rapping on the side of his wineglass signaled everyone to silence, except the children who were shushed by their parents. Either LeFou did not notice or completely ignored Gaston's fuming expression. "So?" he asked cheerily, glancing from Belle to Gaston, completely oblivious. "How did it go?" he encouraged.

LeFou bit his lip just a little as he watched the man in front, perfection in a red tunic and black pants. He let his eyes rise to his shoulders broad and inviting, his type. Nevertheless, this was not a day for distractions, no matter how gorgeous. Gaston's heart foolishly belonged to this tramp. LeFou and his life seem to have departed on separate paths long ago, but it is hard to tell who gave up on who first. He walked as if his bones were loosely connected, shoulders moving like a sack of potatoes in a sack with every heavy footfall. His clothes were not badly fitting, but the wrinkles were apparent even from a distance. His eyes never left Gaston's and as someone said something to LeFou, there was a mumbling of bitter words spat more than spoken and the smell of whisky. Belle briefly tried to imagine Gaston's lackey as a baby, a toddler, a young adult, and failed. His life was just a day at a time, but somehow all of his days lead him to being human surplus: unregarded, unrequited, and unvalued. However, Gaston had eyes only for Belle.

"Answer me, Belle!" he roared. Nevertheless, Belle could not will her lips to move. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as he pointed a trembling finger in her face. "Do you have nothing to say? You really think you can do better than me? I can give you the world at your fingertips, you and your father would want for nothing the rest of your lives! You are making a mistake if you do this! I have poured my heart out to you, now tell me what you're thinking!" he demanded. However, Belle's mind was blank and her eyes wide as she stared at the handsome hunter in horror. His eyes desperately searched hers, waiting. She had to say something. She searched her mind for something reasonable to say, but to her surprise, her heart answered for her despite the sheer panic she felt.

"I will never marry you, Gaston! Get off our property!" Belle turned on her heel and slammed the door behind him, running through the house and out the back door.

She could still hear the villagers' cries of outrage.

"What the hell is that hussy thinking? I'd give my right pinky to wear his ring! Perhaps she'll try old Dupion's son, you know the simple-minded fool who counts pebbles all damn day. He seems more her type, anyway, not Gaston."

"The most handsome eligible bachelor in town and she turns him down? Why, she's just as crazy as her old man!"

"Who does she think she is? Thinks she's too good for the likes of him and for our town. She ain't right in the head!"

"She's an odd little thing, just like her father, that she is."

Belle couldn't take any more of the wagging tongues. She ran. The only thing she was truly sad to leave behind was the wedding cake. The cake was a thing of beauty. The town baker had truly outdone himself this time. Rich velvety layers, topped with delectable frosting and coconut flakes. Bits of Belgian chocolate shavings were scattered throughout.

It really was the perfect cake. Once at a safe distance from the wedding party—her wedding party—she thought in disgust, she got a better look at who all had been invited and at the wedding party itself. Chilled bottles of champagne sat in buckets, beads of moisture covered their sides like pearls.

_Almost like a painting_, thought Belle, amused.

Practically the whole town had turned up to bear witness to Gaston Dupont's triumphant day. The baker, of course, the town's maestro of music, the three blonde hussies from the Rue de Glatigny. Why they were there, Belle didn't know.

With some affection, Belle noticed that the only ones not present besides herself and her father was Monsieur Levi.

The bookkeeper knew the kind of man she would eventually marry—if ever she did, and the boys of this little town in a quiet village simply were not it for Belle. No sir.

However, for some reason, the priest's presence upset Belle the most. It meant to Belle that Gaston was dead serious, hell-bent on marrying her "till death do us part."

"Oh, God, no," she whispered. "Never," she promised. The inventor's daughter stifled a smile behind her hand as she heard the apologetic tittering of both LeFou and the priest to the would-be-groom, his rants still echoing in the air.

More snippets of the conversation wafted Belle's way as the breeze shifted, enraging her enough to the point where she, in a fit of anger, kicked an bucket of chicken feed, spilling it everywhere. Oh, it was all her fault! Never Gaston!

No, Belle was the insane one for daring to turn down the town's favorite "good man," the handsomest man with the best physique and brilliant blue eyes, the best shot with a gun.

She wasn't good enough for him, the villagers said.

But no one thought to ask her if _he_ was good enough for _her_. That's just how it worked in this small-minded provincial village, and Belle couldn't wait to get out. So long had she dreamed of a different life, a better life, than what she had.

Belle looked startled as an epiphany hit her. The simple fact of the matter was that reading simply was no longer enough for her. She yearned for more, to see other places, faraway lands, other oceans, big mountains, other cities…

The thundering of hooves split the silence as a lone stallion galloped through the bleak landscape, interrupting Belle's longings of taking herself and Papa far away from this provincial town. The wind wisped his mane into the air like flames. His muscles rippled from under his freshly groomed pelt and his powerful legs. They propelled him forward and kept him going as he powered over the land, not stopping until he reached Belle. It was Philippe. And he was alone.

"Easy, boy," she whispered, reaching up her hands to try to soothe the frantic beast. "Philippe, what happened? Where is Papa? Is he safe? Oh, you poor thing, you're scared out of your mind! Where is Papa? Take me to him!" she demanded, doing her best to soothe their horse. "Come!"

Belle wasted no time in hopping on the horse's saddle, not needing much encouragement to kick him into motion.

The fear traveled in Belle's veins, but never made it to her facial muscles or her skin. Her complexion remained pale.

Belle looked ahead at the forest path in front of her as Philippe broke into a run, needing no commanding from its rider. Her heart was hammering inside its chest, and she swallowed bile that was rising in her throat at the thought of something happening to her father. _Maybe the wolves got him…_

The path at Philippe's feet fades as the horse leads her further into the darkness of the woods; yet follow it they must for the sake of her father. Somewhere in there is the answers Belle needed, and so she led Philippe to follow the narrow strip of naked earth among the giants of root and leaf.

Belle let her hands touch their skin as she passed, feeling their gentle spirits trying to soothe her own. For this is their world, as they stretch towards the light they never see yet they sense it, and she must do the same. Open up her other senses to sound, to aroma, and listen so very carefully to her instinct.

The inventor's daughter underestimated the utter blackness of nighttime in the woods. In her mind, the trees would be black trunks against a bluish charcoal sky, the path would become deepest brown and the moonlight would beach the stones within it, much like an oil painting.

But these woods were no painting. Even if there was a moon tonight, its silvery rays would not penetrate the dense canopy above. She was in too far to turn back, the twilight she had mistaken for night passed rapidly. It could be no blacker in a coffin, six feet under and piled with dirt.

She began to breathe the cool air more rapidly. The darkness pressed in on her from all sides and her body screamed to tell Philippe to run faster, but her mouth could not form the commands. When she tried, all that came out was a breathy little squeak. All the while, she listened for wolves and bears…and the faint howling of one ran her blood cold. Belle heard it before she saw the pack of them.

Her eyes widened, her breathing ragged and harsh. Her hands trembled at her side and she jammed her knuckles into her mouth to stifle her scream. She had heard them coming; the soft susurration of the wolves' footsteps, like a threatening whisper. The wolves' footsteps did not seem to come from any direction, just a sound that encapsulated her inside her cocoon of despair and hopelessness. She probably wasn't going to make it out alive, nor was her father.

A wolf appeared at last from behind the trunk of an old dead oak tree, its mouth open in a vicious snarl. The animal is as white as the snow. Her fur, short over her body and longer at the neck, is smooth and shiny. Its stance is confident and body muscular, this one knew how to take care of itself.

She regarded Belle and Philippe for a moment, before tilting her head back to the sky and howling, calling, beckoning the others to follow her lead. In return came the call of the rest of her pack. "Oh, God," whispered Belle.

Belle's jaw dropped in a silent scream of horror as the pack of wolves lunged at Philippe, a white blur latching onto Philippe's leg. Startled, he bolted, throwing Belle off him.

She struck the ground hard, rooted to her spot with fear, unable to move or even dared to breathe. She can feel the sweat drenching her skin, the throbbing of her own eyes, the ringing screams vibrating in her ears, and the thumping of her heart against her chest. Her fingers curled into a fist as she thought to finally pick herself off the snow-covered ground and run. Belle couldn't hear her rapid breathing, but she could feel the air flooding in and out of her lungs desperately.

Fear tortured her guts, churning her stomach in tense cramps as she ran for her life. Fear engulfed her conscience, knowing all other thoughts aside and overwhelming her body, making it drastically exhausted despite the adrenaline surge.

However, most of all, her fear was making her calm and that was what scared Belle the most. She was going to die.

Her breath came in small spurts, hot and nervous. Behind her, she could hear the baying howls of the wolves as they advanced on her. "Please, God, let me live," she cried aloud, throwing herself forward with even greater abandon. Her lungs and heart were pumping, but the air didn't seem to be enough as she sprinted forward, panic trembling in her exhausted limbs. At last, a towering castle behind a wrought iron gate came into Belle's view. Her sanctuary. She was safe.

The iron gate had been forged at least a century ago. It was a clear six feet tall and made of twisted black rods. At the end, some were curled in convoluted patterns and opportunist spiders had created webs there. The latch lifted with ease and it swung open without sound. Whatever this place was, though frightening, it was occupied and maintained. Belle did not think twice before shutting the gate behind her, the only barrier between her and the wolves.

"What _is_ this place?" she murmured, opening the gate only once more so that Philippe could follow behind her. "Easy, boy, easy, just settle down. That's it," she whispered, reaching up a trembling hand to pet the stallion's mane. Belle turned to the magnificent castle and the grounds before her.

The castle lay like an old man of the hill, the moonlight shone on his scraggly, tumble down face. Moss clung in the shade of the ancient walls like a straggly beard. Castle walls rose out of the darkness, pitted and forlorn, no longer the bastions of protection and glory that they once were. The stone is rougher than the callused skin of an old man and it left Belle's skin cold, drawing dampness into her bones. Steadfast walls were built for defense in an age defined by jealousy, greed and the love of power as much as honor, nobility and loyalty to the crown. Past the iron gates that trapped would-be intruders, lives of servitude were eked, safe from battle-axe and ballista alike. The castle stood to inspire awe in a realm run of deference to royalty, to title and social status, the expectation of comfort was reserved for just a few. Belle gazed up in wonder at the huge castle. It was a world of subsistence living for all but the mighty who guarded their kingdoms of taxpayers. So long as they sang the right songs of protection, greatness, and of manifest destiny—they would grow rich for generations to come. Therefore, when her eyes befell the grandeur of the weather-beaten stone and heard the wind in the trees, it was an ode to the selfishness of people she heard. Whispering in the grasses were the tales of people set against one another in war by an aristocratic class enriched by the conflict of man.

"Stay here, Philippe," she urged to the great stallion, who was no longer paying her any attention and had settled in, feasting on the garden's grass. Belle, with some difficulty, managed to pry open the heavy oak doors of the castle, where it seemed to swing open with a loud creak of its own accord.

The air inside smelt as if it hadn't moved in years, festering like a stagnant pool of rotten water. The interior of the castle was still, the only movement being the dust her boots had dislodged. Belle stood in a corner of the old palace, wondering where to go and if her father was here. In a fit of agitation, she bit her fingernails, her knuckles in her mouth.

At twenty-two, she should be past such things, but there was something deep within her that was too broken to mend.

"Papa?" she called out meekly, hearing her voice echo through the silent, deserted corridors. She began to walk, not sure, which direction to take, but her gut feeling told her that her father was somewhere in here, and she had to find him.

Belle glanced upwards, towards a magnificent stairwell and thought that a good place to start. Her mouth pursed but slightly open and loose, her eyes fixated on a side stairwell that appeared to lead to a dungeon of sorts. "Papa!"

Nothing met her summons but silence. Figures. The vast loneliness and emptiness of the castle was overwhelming. With every step she took forward, Belle seemed to move nowhere. She would stop, start, and take a short run to see if that got her anywhere, but alas, it did not, and she felt a sinking feeling of despair as she realized something she had been denying herself for the last twenty minutes: she was lost and her father was nowhere to be found. She was helpless.

"Papa!" she whispered, finally reaching the dungeons. Belle pinched her nose as she dared set foot inside the castle's prison. The air inside was different and for a moment, she was unable to put her finger on why. Then it hit her. The smell of sweat was gone; there was no sound of people, nothing but the eerie silence. However, that wasn't the worst part of it. The dungeon was just walls, walls and giant empty rooms. Here, Belle could feel the icy, harsh grip of death.

Still, she tried again. "Papa?" she whispered meekly.

The answer to her call was a rattling, barking cough.

Moreover, at the end of each cough, it had that whistling sound you get when the airways were closing up. They were coming thick and fast now, and he was struggling to get enough air in this damp, cold room devoid of light and warmth. "Belle?" her father's voice came out of the darkness. Relief washed over Belle like a tidal wave. "Belle, is that you?"

"Papa!" she cried, running over to her father's cell, little more than a cage with bars on the doors and no windows. She felt his hands; they were cold to the touch. "My God, your hands are like ice. Who did this to you?" she demanded. Her brown eyes wandered and landed on his injured shoulder. "And your shoulder! Papa, what happened? Tell me!" she pleaded, reaching for his hands through the bars.

"Get the hell out of here!" Maurice hissed, almost angrily. "Belle, you need to go now before he comes back!"

"Who?" she asked, silently fuming at whoever had done this to her father. "Who did this to you, Papa? I am not leaving you here to die like this! Tell me his name now!"

An earth-shattering roar filled the dungeons, interrupting whatever Maurice had been about to say next, a terrified look in his normally kind eyes. A man's voice filled the air, his voice deep and rich, and although furious in the moment, melodious. The kind of voice that a man should have.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" he bellowed.

Startled and taken aback by the outburst, Belle cowered in the corner. "I've come for my father!" she pleaded desperately. "Please, show him mercy. He's sick, he needs medical attention soon or he'll die! He's done nothing—"

"He shouldn't have stolen from me!" the man's voice growled, sounding impressed with Belle's groveling.

"What did he take?" demanded Belle, anger welling deep within the pit of her stomach at the captor's accusation.

"Your…father wandered into my rose gardens and stole one of these," the man retorted, startling Belle as a single white rose was tossed at her feet. "For that, he suffers."

"All over a rose?" she shouted, feeling her rage surface. Her eyes flitting back and forth between her father, who was getting weaker by the minute, and wildly searching for the source of this man's voice, but he was concealed in shadow.

"Yes," the man snapped, irate now. "There is nothing you can say that will change my mind, woman. Try me…"

"I asked for the rose. Punish me, not him!"

"No, Belle, he means forever!" shouted Maurice, growing panicked. "Apparently that's what happens around here when you pick a flower!" he bellowed, forgetting himself for a moment and wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

Belle turned to the shadows, to the voice. "A life sentence for a rose? That's absurd!" she snarled.

The man's voice was a low, guttural growl. When he spoke, his voice had gone dangerously soft and quiet. "I received eternal damnation because of one. I'm merely…locking him away," the man said, sounding amused.

"Oh, there must be something I can offer you," she thought, wildly racking her brain for anything back at the house she might have to offer the man. Most of what they had was food, a little bit of gold. Not much. The poor's curse.

The man laughed, his cruel laughter echoing throughout the chamber. "I am master of this castle!" he retorted hotly, sounding highly amused. "What could you possibly offer me that I do not already have, girl?" he asked, challenging her.

To Belle, being brave meant being afraid, or at least it did for her. The two went hand in hand. First came the fear, then the determination not to be ruled by it. She will always choose to face fear, to conquer it, for how else could she make true progress in life? She would not shy from the battlefields. Though her heart was racing in its chest and the tips of her fingers tingled from an excess of adrenaline, she was a warrior at heart. However, in the moment, she was not thinking when she found her voice at last after a long silence. "Me," she said calmly. "Take me instead. Let him go!"

"NO!" roared Maurice, frantic now. "I—I forbid this, Belle. Listen to me, I am old, I have lived my life. I can't let you do this!" he shouted. "I won't let you, Belle! Do not!"

"I love you, Papa," whispered Belle, before kissing her father's hand with all the tenderness she could muster. His skin was cold to the touch. She let go and whispered, "This is my choice, Papa. It won't be forever. Just until the debt is paid. Then I promise I will return to you, Papa. I swear it."

The man's voice was stunned, as though he had never considered that she would offer such a deal. "You would…take his place?" he asked in disbelief. "Truly?"

"Yes," she said, her voice cracking. She fought it back down and continued, not wanting to show fear in front of whoever this cruel man was. "Free him, and keep me instead. I—I swear I will do whatever you ask of me, just let him live and see to it he receives medical care and take him home."

"Very well," the man responded curtly. "But you must promise to stay here forever!" he shouted, almost an afterthought. "That is my deal, woman. Take it."

Belle quirked her brow at the looming shadow in front of her. "Come into the light," she commanded cautiously. The shadow in front of her did so, and Belle gasped. Her new master was a monster, a large carnivorous animal, perhaps the largest to have ever roamed the land. Extremely robust with powerfully built jaws and strong forelimbs, the creature had retractable claws allowing them to remain sharp when not in use. The Beast's brown fur was thick and matted, congealed with something crimson that looked like dried blood and probably fleas. Twisted horns atop his head protruded upwards and appeared to touch the ceiling. The creature gave off an aura of pure hate expressed in its blue eyes devoid of any love or warmth. Just coldness.

"Guards!" the Beast roared, glowering at Belle. The scuffle of footsteps broke the awkward silence and two guardsmen approached, looking winded and terrified.

"Yes, m' lord?" one of them wheezed, a young man who could not have been older than Belle, early twenties at best.

"One of you escort the man out. See to it his wounds are treated before he goes and that he is properly fed. The other, show the young woman to her quarters. Do it now," he ordered, his voice harsh, grating, and almost bark like.

The master of the castle said nothing further as he left the young woman alone, the only sound ringing in her ears was that of her father's violent screams and protests as he was dragged away.


	4. Chapter Three: Be Our Guest

There was hope for Belle before. Just a tiny flicker against the wind. With the open eyes of a child, Belle had reached out for her father, fingers extended. In that moment, her new master, the Beast himself, had a choice of kindness or cruelty.

It took no time at all for him to decide. He saw that dying ember and brought the winds to a cold howl. How was it that his thinking was so different from her own, so…alien, almost? How was it that he saw the suffering and chose to make it worse?

She sat in the pit of darkness, the prison cell that has now become her world, the only decorations her own nail marks on the walls she cannot scale. Though she knew there was light at the top, it felt a million miles away, and were it not for the others, the servants being down here with her, she would not even try to escape. Every time she reached out with love to someone up there, someone she hoped could throw her a rope, the floor sinks a little lower, jolting her body as it stops—crushing her with a new pain, another abandonment—this time it is her father, taken from her by force.

Perhaps now is the time to realize it was not her she was supposed to get out, but the Beast himself. And so she let her eyes become accustomed to the darkness he seems to have dwelled in these many years and saw that intermingled with the marks of her own nails are his too, though older, the blood long dried. Then Belle knew, he gave up because there was nothing else for him to do, and the best day of the creature's life was when she fell into this pit of despair with him, their tears running together. She will get him out, if it is the last thing she ever does. Perhaps then and only then will he release her and allow her to see her papa again. Because that is how Belle knew that she could love as she was born to, that she can put another first even when her winter was at its darkest. This is who she was, and so even in her despairing pain can be seen to others as a gift, a chance to know what she was made of, to earn her own respect.

Belle's musings on her new predicament were interrupted by the sound of a man behind her clearing his throat. Startled, Belle looked up from the dingy floor to find herself face-to-face with two men, a young and an older one. She focused on the old man first, since his appearance fascinated Belle the most. The old man had a fringe of grey-white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. He had a wizened face and a back slightly hunched from years of hard work. With each movement, there was the creak of old bones. He had the resigned look of one who knows that at his age, life has stopped giving and only takes away, and for him, life had taken his last straw. He looked as though a puff of wind could blow him down. He had a hand tremor and constant waggling and bobbing of his head. The old man's wrinkles seemed to carve a map of his life of servitude to the master of this castle on his still agile facial features, despite his age. Thick white eyebrows framed his twinkling green eyes and on his stubbled chin were white whiskers. When he spoke, his voice warbled but was kind.

"Mademoiselle, if you will kindly follow us, Monsieur Lumiere and I," he added, gesturing rather disgruntledly towards his colleague, "will show you to your quarters."

Belle stared, not quite getting it. "My—my room? But I thought…"

The younger man besides the old man spoke up, interjecting cheerfully. Belle turned her attentions towards the younger and was astonished at how much gold the man wore. "It is a pleasure, mademoiselle," he said smoothly, his voice melodious and rich. He reached down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Belle's hand, earning a look of disgust and outrage from the elderly man. "Please, ignore my…esteemed colleague, Monsieur Cogsworth. He's a bit of a curmudgeon and not very fun at all."

Belle could only stare in a daze. This younger man had quite a personality contrast in compared to his counterpart. He was handsome from the depth of his eyes to the gentle expressions of his voice. He was handsome from his generous opinions to the touch of his hand upon her own as he helped Belle up from the dungeon floor. She loved the way his voice quickened when he sparked with a new idea, or was so enjoying one of his own that he lost himself for a moment and quite forgot the mask that he wore for others. No one feature made this man called Monsieur Lumiere so handsome, though his eyes came close. People often spoke of the color of eyes, as if that were of any importance, yet his would be beautiful in any shade. From his eyes came an intensity, an honesty, a gentleness. Perhaps this is what is meant by a gentleman, not one of weakness or trite politeness, but one of spirit and nobility.

What he is, what was beautiful about this man came from deep within, although he was handsome on the outside too, with blond hair that was cropped short and neat, and a strong chiseled jaw and cheekbones, his brown eyes alight with a mischievous, playful glint that seemed to glow in the warm light of the candelabra he held in his hand, guiding the tortured young Belle to her new quarters in the master's castle.

"The master will not have his new…guest residing in such atrocious places as the dungeons," muttered Lumiere darkly, leading the way, taking great long strides and scoffing to himself as the elderly man who called himself Cogsworth struggled to keep up. He could not resist calling back. "You all right, Cogs? Do we need to stop a minute?" The comment earned a dark, withering look from the old man as he panted.

"The master, he…he requests that you join him for dinner," he heaved, trying to catch his breath, one hand on his heart and another clasped tightly around a golden pocket watch, which he seemed to glance at every few minutes out of pure habit.

Belle suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. "I want nothing more to do with your master," she explained through gritted teeth, clenching and unclenching her fists, not sure what to do with her hands. "He has the audacity to keep me a prisoner here against my will, keeping me from saying goodbye to my father, the only family I have left in this world, and then suggest, no _demand_, that I join him for dinner? I think not. You may go back to your master and tell that I will think about it, no more, no less."

Monsieur Lumiere burst out laughing. "Oh, this one is a fiery one, she is! The master has chosen a good one that is for sure! I think, in time, mademoiselle, you will come around. The master, he is not so bad once you take the time to get to know him."

"I don't want to get to know him!" shouted Belle hotly, practically collapsing onto the bed of her new room, ignoring the delicate, intricate details of the bedchambers around him. "Your master—he truly is a beast in every literal sense of the word!"

"Come now, child," spoke up a new voice from the doorway, this one an elderly woman's, matronly and kind, flowing through the tense room like a soft breeze. "You must give him a chance. If you are going to be staying here with us, you will have to encounter the master eventually; there is no getting around that fact. You are our guest here and we will do everything in our power to ensure that you are happy."

Belle felt her eyes widen incredulously as she took in the new arrival. The woman standing in the doorway with a sad but bemused expression on her face. At her age, she should have one foot in the grave. Her gait should be wonky with arthritic joints and her eyesight failing rapidly, faster than she could pour that cup of tea she was currently fixing for Belle to soothe her nerves. Were it not for the lines in her face, Belle would think the old woman to be sixty at most, given her sharp mind and easy motion, but they were so deep and saggy, as if the skin no longer had a connection to the skull underneath. Were she in a portrait, Belle would have assumed her no older than ninety, and she thought that was where she is. It is her litheness and articulate speech that threw Belle for a loop, an echo of youth in someone so old.

Belle found herself wanting to pull away the mask of this woman's age to see the person inside, the girl that she used to be all those years ago. Then, Belle thought wondrously as the woman silently handed her a steaming cup of hot herbal tea, that she did not have to, if she listened to her words and paid attention to the woman's smile, to her eyes, the young girl was still in Mrs. Pott's soul as much as she ever was.

Belle sighed, accepting the tea mug gratefully. As she took a sip, the soothing liquid sent incredible warmth down her throat and into the pits of her stomach, and just for a mere moment, she felt a little better. "May I ask a question in regards to the master?"

"Of course, child," replied the woman called Mrs. Potts warmly. "Ask away."

"How did he…" Belle hesitated, gesturing to her face and body. "Become so…?"

"Beastly?" spoke up Cogsworth darkly. "Oh, therein lies a tale. I hope you pulled up a comfortable chair, we'll be here a while if you want the master's life tale."

Mrs. Potts suddenly looked uncomfortable as she picked at a loose thread on her apron. "Oh, never you mind your pretty little head about our master, child. He was human once," she reminisced, a wry smile on her face. "A few years back, he turned away the wrong person, a—a witch, if you will. An Enchantress who was not to be trifled with. She had seen that there was no love in his heart, and transformed him. I thought for certain she would have enchanted those of us that work for the master as well, given that we watched that boy grow up and into something so horrendous that it was not to be believed, but the woman took pity on us that night and spared us, making it so that our master was the only one who suffered from his actions."

"Is there no way to break the curse?" inquired Belle, truly curious now, leaning forward a little, as she rested her chin in her hands. It was just like magic, as she'd read about in one of her books. She had never believed it could exist in real life, but…

Mrs. Potts' cheeks flushed high and bright red with color. "Oh, never you mind yourself over our master's affairs, child. As far as I am concerned, he forged his own path and it will up to…to the master in order to set things right for himself, dear."

Cogsworth cleared his throat irritably, obsessively glancing at his watch. "Speaking of the master, young mademoiselle, you will be late for dinner if we keep this up."

"Oh, I won't be going to dinner with that _beast_," snapped Belle harshly, her tone cold as she folded her arms across her chest as she glowered at the older man. "He is a monster, to have trapped me here like this against my will. He didn't even let me say goodbye to my father! Why on earth would I want to dine with a creature like that?"

Cogsworth's face turned ashy and clammy at her passionate declaration. "Mademoiselle, I advise you to caution yourself," he said solemnly, his eyes still looking rather panicked but he forced his voice to remain steady and calm. "Perhaps you might have gotten away with being so…outspoken in the village from which you came, but in this castle, in this world…things are different here, milady. I advise you to tread with caution around the master if you want your life here to be amenable. The aristocracy do not take kindly to…individuals such as yourself who openly share their opinions and frequently voice their concerns. Tread lightly around him, child."

Belle glowered at Cogsworth. She was not fooled. "Meaning that because I am a woman, around this Beast, I should keep my mouth shut and my legs open, is that it?"

Lumiere burst out laughing, his wicked laughter echoing in the bedroom, reverberating off the walls. "Oh, I rather like this one, Cogsworth. She is much different than the last girl the master tried, is she not? She has a fiery spirit, she does!"

Cogsworth sighed, looking defeated. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm afraid of," he moaned, rubbing the bridge of nose as though he were getting a splitting migraine. "Well, come Monsieur Lumiere. Let's leave the women to it and go…inform the master," he said, shuddering as a tremor went down his backside at the thought of having to tell their master the regrettable news that the girl would not be coming.

The men left the women alone, their laughter soon turning to bickering that echoed down the hallways long after they had departed the East Wing. "Now," said Mrs. Potts opening a wardrobe near the bed. "You might not be going to dinner with the master, but should you change your mind, I know the perfect dress. You cannot show up to dine with the master of this castle dressed the way you currently are. Ah, yes, this one will do just nicely," she said warmly, pulling out a beautiful light green dress, the skirts floor-length and the dress itself was made of linen, the sleeves long and close fitting, and the bodice laced up in the back, and would emphasize Belle's slender, petite figure quite nicely. "We'll have to fix your hair, of course," she muttered, clucking her tongue in disapproval as she set to work quickly weaving a waterfall braid in Belle's loose curls. "There," she said at last when she had finished.

Belle hardly recognized herself when Mrs. Potts dragged her over to the mirror. Her hair was beautiful, and the green dress was flattering to her body, and set off her brown hair and pale skin quite nicely. She sighed, recognizing defeat, tucking back a lock of hair behind her ear. "Perhaps if the Beast will learn to show me that he can be a gentleman and prove to me that he has manners," she spat disgustedly, "then I will reconsider my original answer of joining that _creature_ for dinner. Though I may be a prisoner here, I will not tolerate abuse at his hand, and that goes for his rudeness."

Mrs. Potts chuckled lightly as she ran a brush through Belle's curls gingerly. "Oh yes," she laughed, the sound of her inner child coming out briefly. "I think you are going to do quite well for yourself here, my dear. Quite well indeed. Perhaps you can teach our master a thing or two about grace and etiquette. He has…" Mrs. Potts hesitated, wondering how much of Prince Adam's personality she could divulge. "He has not had it easy here, given the last few years of his curse, my child. I think that if you were to…shall we say, try to befriend him, then perhaps there is a little shred of hope for him in that his curse can be broken, if he can learn to mean what it is to truly love."

Words left Belle as she allowed Mrs. Pott's words to sink in as her brain struggled to process the information she had just learned. She felt her eyes grow wide and round as a dinner plate. "No, no, no! Absolutely not!" she bellowed, bolting up from her spot on the edge of the bed and feeling her temper rise to dangerous levels. "Mrs. Potts, forgive my abrasiveness, but there is no hope for your master to learn to love. There is no love in his heart, only cruelty and malice! To think that there is an inkling of hope for him to find love, with me no less is positively, absolutely absurd! NO!"

Mrs. Potts smiled sadly, as she turned to leave. She paused, a wrinkled hand on the door frame to steady herself as she turned back to look at the beautiful brown-haired woman silently fuming in her anger at her situation. Mrs. Potts could not blame her for this. The poor child had lost her freedom and her father all in one day. It was no wonder her emotions were currently in some kind of mental free-fall. However, there was always hope. "Don't underestimate the master, child. Perhaps it is a good thing you are here. You can show our prince what it means to be kind, to respect someone. He needs a good role model in his life. I think that person can be you, but only if you let yourself. Since you are going to be staying with us indefinitely, I think you can make the most of your time here by working with the master to improve his ways."

With that, she said nothing more, leaving Belle alone in her room to ponder her words. The silence gnawed at her insides. Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything. If only she had a book, she could have happily curled up in the armchair in the corner of her room and escaped for a bit. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring how vapid her precious conversations with the heads of household had been. The silence in Belle's room was eerily unnatural, like a dawn devoid of birdsong. It clung to her like a poisonous cloud that could, at any moment, choke the life from her, seeping into her every pore, like a poison slowly paralyzing her from either speech or movement. Belle sighed, thinking of her father. "Papa," she whispered, going over to the window and staring out into the thick brush of forest that lay beyond the castle walls. "Whenever you are, I hope that you made it home and that you are safe."


	5. Chapter Four: An Unexpected Visitor

The Beast irritably paced the floor of the dining hall in front of the roaring fire in the fireplace. The wood fire, blazing lazily in the ample fireplace, sent its warmth and light far out into the room, flashing red and orange reflections. The warmth did not reach the Beast's soul. If anything, he felt cold. Cold and alone, fuming in his anger.

Glancing up at the mantle, he stared numbly into the fire's glow, thinking of the turn of events the night had taken. He had fully been expecting to kill the old man, since judging by the severity of his shoulder wounds, he would not have lasted the night.

Then this—this creature that was now a permanent guest in his castle dared to speak her mind to him and offered her own life in exchange for the old man's. The Beast stifled a low growl in the back of his throat as his vision became blotched with violent colors that moved without design. His wall of pain crippled him, but still, the girl's terrified face swims back into his vision, and he remembers how horrified she looked.

The woman was a beautiful one. He could not deny that fact. With a name like Belle, how could she not be? He had not gotten a long glance at her, but what he had been able to see of the girl in the dungeon's dim light, he had liked. Her imperfections made her perfect. There was a shyness to the girl, hesitation in her body movements and a softness in her voice. Her brown hair, a hue that reminded him of an oak tree after a fresh rainfall, had cascaded in gentle curls down to her breasts. Belle's beautiful hair was a rich chocolate brown, reminded him of the bark of an oak tree, not dark but simply gentle in any light. Without red or golden hues, it had reminded him of an old childhood teddy bear he used to have that he would sometimes play with as a young boy. Belle's hair, that subdued earthy tone was as a song softly played, bringing him to recollections of autumn as the seasons shifted. He knew some women had hair with brighter tones, inflections of vibrant red or gold streaks that catch the sunlight. However, earth herself has a beauty not to be ignored and to wear the colors of her soils as Belle proudly did was an honor, not a misfortune.

In addition, her eyes, her brown eyes were a million hues. They were the forest and the autumnal leaves, the soil in summer and after the rains. How could he ever reduce something so spellbinding to one word such as 'brown,' when the color of her eyes invited the Beast to marvel in their simplicity? Her eyes were bewitching, haunting. Belle's eyes were a hickory as rich as the earth's soil, stained with the color of hot cocoa on a cold, winter's night that wrapped around you like a blanket; engulfing the Beast in its warmth and made him feel…at home. Those deep pools of dark cinnamon swirls seized the depth and heaviness of a thousand untold stories. They consisted of raw emotion and if you observed Belle's eyes closely, they revealed to him the exact thought that crossed the marvels of her ominous mind. On the other side of all, that…Her brown-mahogany orbs possessed a mischievous glint that could be noticed next to the umber that rimmed her iris. They glowed with a humor and playfulness that never seemed to escape her eyes. Nevertheless, her eyes, when she had been staring up at him from her spot on the dungeon floor had stared at him with such sorrow that placed a melancholic veil, which cloaked her eyes, it seemed surreal.

He will never be anything but a monster, a beast, so why should he try to pretend otherwise? The master was only vaguely aware of Lumiere and Cogsworth entering the room, and he turned to face the two terrified servants, who suddenly looked pale and at a loss for words as he inquired to the young girl's whereabouts for his dinner.

"Ah, well," began Lumiere, stepping forward cautiously. "She um…did not precisely come out and tell us that she would not attend, the girl prattled on something about manners, but she said that she would, given her circumstances, that she would…think about it?" he finished weakly, squinting his eyes and preparing for the inevitable outburst.

"WHAT?!" roared the Beast, letting out a guttural roar that shook the chandelier in the dining room. Every word that Cogsworth and Lumiere tried to offer to calm him down only stung, fueling the fire that burned within him. Every violated phrase was like fire on oil, his paws began to clench and his jaw rooted. He exploded with anger at last, overturning a chair and tossing a crystal decanter into the fire, where it shattered into a million tiny fragments. Lumiere and Cogsworth fell into a deep bow and practically dropped to the floor as his primeval instinct took over, consuming him. Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting, fury sweeping off him in ferocious waves. The wrath consumed the Beast, engulfing what little moralities he had left and destroying the boundaries of his loyalties.

Ignoring his adviser's protests, he fled up the grand spiral staircase, through the East Wing and to the girl's corridors, where he could hear the girl speaking in low murmurings to none other than Mrs. Potts herself. The old traitor. He would deal with her later, but now to deal with the matter of this—this insolent wench.

"You will join me for dinner!" he bellowed. "That's not a request, mademoiselle!"

"No thank you!" came her voice irritably from inside the door.

"Gently, maître, gently," whispered Lumiere, cringing at the harshness of his master's tone. "The girl is going through a tough night; please do not make it worse for her."

"But she's being so difficult!" he growled, pointing at the door, wanting knowing more than to kick down the door and drag the girl kicking and screaming if he had to the dining hall. Still, he tried again, lowering his voice and softening his approach. "It would…give me great pleasure…if you would join me for dinner." A beat. "Please."

"No, thank you!" she repeated, still annoyingly stubborn. "You need a lesson on manners, Beast! If you want a woman to win your affections, that's not the way to go about it!" she called out, unable to resist throwing some shade in his direction.

A snort from behind that quickly turned into a cough told the Beast that Lumiere was trying his hardest not to laugh. Clearly, this girl being so outspoken was going to be a problem. No matter. He would remedy that. Turning to Cogsworth and Lumiere, his advisers cowered under his dark glare. "If she doesn't eat with me, she doesn't eat at all," he declared, raising his voice enough so that Belle could hear him. "See how long you last without food. You'll die if you don't eat," he taunted, mocking the girl. Eventually, she would have to come out. She could not stay in there forever.

However, it became clear to him the beautiful brunette had other ideas. "I'd rather die than ever dine with you, Beast!" she roared, her temper almost a rival for the Beast's.

He felt his temper surge and before he could stop himself, he let out an earth-shattering roar that shook the girl's door practically off the hinges. "THEN GO AHEAD AND STARVE!" he roared, beside himself with anger. He turned back to his servant's, their heads bowed in submission as they refused to meet his gaze. "I expect you to follow my commands on this. If she won't eat with me, she'll starve."

"Y—yes, master," mumbled Cogsworth under his breath, quaking from his spot on the floor. "W—we will see to it that the girl changes her mind. No—no worries!"

Glowering at the two servants, the Beast said nothing further, stalking off towards the castle ground. Gods, he needed some air. The scent of the heady air after a rainfall hit his nose as he stalked the rose gardens, averting his gaze at the white roses. As his bare paw touched the soil, his claws became bathed in the newly bequeathed rain. It gurgled, bubbling as he paced back and forth, restless, his tail twitching in irritation, somehow soothing to the Beast in its coolness. The mud of the grounds around him was pitted and without a single print other than his own—just the same as it was after a fresh snowfall but a deep brown. It was not pristine, of course, but the fragrance of the pines above was so inviting to the cursed prince that it invited him to pause and take a moment to reflect on what had just happened to him. Kissed by the rain ad glistening, the wet ground was cold under his paws. Stepping off the rose garden path and into the grass, he felt the squelch of the mud underneath. He did not give a damn anymore about the mud. Normally, he would have balked, but not now. The water rose up and ran between his claws. The birds busied themselves around him in the night, not caring that he was there, and all they wanted was the worms that have come up for air in the cold autumnal night. When the Beast let out a haggard breath, it curled in a slight mist in front of him. "Insolent girl!" he snarled through gritted teeth. "Who the hell does she think she is?" Then it hit him. She had rejected him. The Beast had gone his entire life as a prince with no rejection from any woman. The girls would throw themselves at his feet and into his bed, eager to please the man in exchange for wealth, jewels, and titles of high status. But not this girl, this Belle.

The Beast pondered this thought for a moment. She was different. What kind of woman would give up so much as she had—her entire life—for the life of her father? The Beast wondered if he could ever be capable of such a sacrifice, if he was even capable of love. The Beast pondered this thought and felt a cold chill envelop his body. He suppressed a shiver and turned around, feeling another presence in his gardens. "You," he hissed through clenched teeth, turning around to face the intruder. "I thought I told you never to come here," he growled, feeling the acidic bile rise in his throat as he glared at the new arrival, squinting and struggling to see through the thick mist. The late night fog loomed as far as he could see, it was almost tangible, shrouding everything in a thick white blanket, the light of the moon barely managing to penetrate the haze. The greedy beast had swallowed even his own footsteps. The Beast fell silent, waiting.

A cloaked figure stood in front of him, the fog swirling around them, but they paid it no mind. He could tell from the outline that it was a woman. The Beast's eyes narrowed as he assessed the woman's figure with a trained eye. As she lowered her hood, it took all his resolve not to let out a scream of frustration. The robe the woman wore was a long linen robe, a light brown color the color of desert sand. The fabric was draped in rich architectural pleats, the waistline high, which only emphasized her slim, elongated silhouette. The sleeves of the garment were long and wide with turnbacks, suggesting that she was someone of nobility. Her hood as she lowered it draped elegantly over the back, giving off the appearance that this woman, whoever she was, was a queen or a wanderer in exile, an ambassador of God Himself.

However, the Beast knew better. He stifled a growl as he glared at the beautiful woman in front of him. He saw, with some satisfaction, that the woman suffered a yellowing purple bruise just above one of her delicately shaped arched eyebrows. Her auburn, strawberry blonde hair was like liquid sunshine against a face so pale as to be striking. The strands flowed in natural curls to her shoulders. The woman had been graced with God's beauty, with a prominent jawline and cheekbones, and an elegant, swanlike neck. In irritation, the young woman tossed her strawberry blonde curls back over her shoulders and clutched onto the walking stick she used tightly in a vice grip.

"What are you doing here?" growled the Beast. "I thought I told you never to come here!" he demanded, pacing in agitation, avoiding the red roses in his gardens.

A sardonic smile flashed across the mysterious woman's face. It created slight dimples and creases. She dipped her head down, never someone to be loud or extroverted. Arrogance was the Beast's worst vice and the thing that kept the woman coming back.

She appeared whenever she pleased from time to time and always without warning. Never mind that it was his castle, his gardens, the woman did as she liked. The Beast had long since given up demanding that she appear at his bequest. He soon discovered after the first few attempts that his own desires were of no consequence to her. "I see you managed to incur the wrath of someone at last," he sneered, the corners of his mouth turning up in a twisted, grotesque smirk as the Beast eyed the yellow purple bruise above the woman's brow. "What happened? Enchant the wrong person?" he growled, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice any longer.

The woman smirked, the corners of her mouth twitching as she fought back a smile.

"You could say that," she snorted sardonically. "I had a misunderstanding with one of my…esteemed colleagues, an old man by the name of Merlin. We disagreed surrounding the matter of one of his charges, things got a bit out of hand thanks to the moronic boy sleeping with his sister and not knowing who he was bedding at the time, but the matter was resolved. But I am not here to discuss my relationships with colleagues," she snapped, her beautiful face contorting to reveal her annoyance. "It is you I wish to discuss. You and I, we have not spoken in quite some time."

"There's nothing to discuss," the Beast replied coldly, suddenly feeling nervous.

The woman flashed him a charming smile that sent a chill down his spine. "Oh, I beg to differ, Beast," she replied sweetly, stooping down to caress one of his blood red roses with delicate, gentle fingers. Upon closer inspection, the Beast could see that the woman kept her nails pristine, clean and short. Most unusual for someone of her practice. "You've managed to capture a pretty little thing at long last. I had expected your condition to have progressed by now, Beast. Do you truly believe that you will find it within yourself to capture this woman's heart, Beast? Right now, I have my doubts. Like Icarus, you flew too close to the sun. You thought yourself invincible until the wax melted from your wings when you turned me away that night. At first, it was drip by drip. You were too busy enjoying your flight as prince of these lands to notice. Pride will do that to a man, it blinds you to your own demise. Before you knew it, you crashed down towards the angry sea, prepared to drown in its endless abyss."

The Beast said nothing, waiting for her tortuous little counseling session to end. He knew if he spoke, it would only fuel her fire further and incite the woman's wrath.

The woman fell silent and stared at him for a long moment, making him feel uneasy. The dread at the Enchantress's words crept over the Beast like an icy chill, numbing his brain. In this frozen state, his mind only offers one thought: he is doomed. There is no avoiding it. The dread crept down his spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of silk. He can feel her feet on his fur, on his skin, descending until he was almost frozen to the spot. His stomach was full of bricks, and acidic bile crept up his throat. He swallowed and fought back the urge to be sick as he waited for the woman to speak.

The Enchantress regarded the Beast with a careful eye as she studied his movements, noting the way his breath caught in his throat as he fell under her scrutinizing gaze. There is something about a fragment of warmth that can show the coldness, something in the kiss of the sun's rays amid the cold almost winter-wind. In that moment, it was the Enchantress's bones that felt the chill, as if she were laying in snow instead of hearing the autumn leaves of September crinkling beneath her feet, and it was stealing everything that was she. She had hope for the monster before her.

The worst thing, the Enchantress believed, was that you could be a coward, to the self, and to others, to Mother Earth. In the Beast's case, it was to his servants. For the coward will sacrifice anything to save the physical self, even at the price of emotional death. The former man in front of her was willing to become a monster, in every sense of the word, to let the darkness live where his true self once did. Perhaps, once, he might have been kind, but at the cruel upbringing of his father, the late Duke, after the Duchess's untimely death, the boy's father had changed, cutting off his son.

The Enchantress would be keeping a closer eye on her charge in front of her, now that she had received notice that the prince had managed to find a woman. But would the woman love the Beast in return? Only time would tell. She shifted her walking stick in her hands and continued to stare quizzically at the Beast, lost in her thoughts.

Magic can be used to make a person forget experiences, to not see what is right in front of them and to control their behavior. With words, you can be paralyzed or have your body controlled…yet it was possible to fight your way out of it, to resist the spell. For the ones that fought the spells, as she herself once did, who emerged with memories that were supposed to be erased, people could find medicines to reduce the pain of memories that they would rather soon forget, the faces of loved one's they'd rather not remember. Magic, to the Enchantress, was both a science and an art, it used up her entire brain and body whenever she cast a new spell, a new curse on one who deserved it. The Enchantress sought out the humans, ones who would seek to harm the world. She considered herself a good witch, a good woman who shared her abilities and would teach wiling participants how it worked. She spent most of her immortal life pleading for humanity to wake, trying to find ways to reach them.

She was trying with every ounce of strength and magic she possessed to save humanity. The Enchantress worked with and for the positive universal force. She was helped by love and made well by love. The sorcerers and enchantresses who practiced the magic of the dark arts were helped by the negative force, their minds and bodies poisoned by love and feeding off peoples' pain and fears.

The Enchantress let out a weary sigh, brushing a lock of curly auburn hair behind her ear as she spoke to the Beast. "When was the last time, Beast, that you looked upon your own reflection? Or saw to the rose I gave you?" she admonished, noticing the momentary flicker of panic crossing the Beast's blue orbs, the only thing left that remained of him that still showed what little humanity remained in Beast's soul. Noticing that the Beast was not going to respond to her question, she continued. "In case you have forgotten the conditions of my curse to you, I will lay out the rules for you once again," she spoke stoically, her voice losing any semblance of warmth and growing colder, harder. The tone of a woman who had had enough. "The rose will bloom until your twenty-first year. You must love her and you must earn the love of the woman in return, and the spell can only be broken by the utterance of said admissions of feelings towards one another, followed by true love's kiss. The girl may use the mirror that I gave you, to look into the outside world beyond that of your kingdom. How to phrase this next part…the most terrifying aspects of the curse are reserved for you and you alone," she replied harshly, noticing the Beast's blank stare.

When the Beast said nothing, she continued, huffing in frustration at his lack of response. "I will be checking up on you from time to time at my own accord. Do not forget, Beast, true love, both given and received. You have until the last petal falls."

What the master of the castle said next surprised the Enchantress, catching her off guard. "Milady, what is your name? Have you one?" he asked suddenly.

The Enchantress stared at the Beast coldly. "Who I am is absolutely nothing, I am not important," she retorted icily. "Who I am and what my name is of no consequence to you. Remember Beast, true love before your twenty-first name day, and you might stand a chance at breaking this curse," she said curtly, falling silent again.

Without another a word, the mist surrounding the rose gardens thickened, seeming to envelop the beautiful young Enchantress as the mist engulfed her completely until she disappeared into thin air, leaving the Beast alone to his brooding thoughts.

Belle, such a beautiful young woman as she would never see past his gruesome visage.

For he was nothing but a monster. And what beauty could ever learn to love a beast?


	6. Chapter Five: Will No One Help Me?

There was a silence to Maurice's soul; he was the fall leaves under frost. He felt the chill in his blood that had nothing to do with the cold September air as the carriage continued to take him further and further away from that beast's adobe and his daughter and back to their little village just on the outskirts of Paris. The coldness of his blood brought the synapses of his brain to a standstill. Part of it was a pain, yet one that he could endure, one he could sleep through night after night without the medicines of false hope. This was his winter, to live in a world without his Belle.

Gods, what had he done to her? He never should have picked that godforsaken white rose. It was because of him he would most likely never see his little girl again.

His emptiness, hollowness at the loss of his beloved wife's disappearance, and now his daughter was always there. He just considered himself decent at hiding it, masking it with normal human emotions. No one ever asked him why he was smiling. It hid everywhere, this emptiness. There was no getting away from it. His nightmares as he tossed fitfully in the carriage seemed to help fill it, with what he did not care to elaborate. But he needed it. Maurice needed something to go wrong, something to be imperfect. He thought, sadly, that he felt safer when something was wrong. He needed it to distract himself, not from everything else, but simply, from himself.

"Don't worry, Beast," he muttered darkly under his breath, clutching the thick woolen blanket one of the guards had given him tighter around himself for warmth. "Don't you worry, monster, there is another one sleeping right next to you. It is me."

The inventor and painter took a moment to reflect on his beautiful wife, his Esme, wondering if he would be fortunate enough to look upon her again. She had been the best, the finest, the one he could rely on, no matter what. She was the one who understood the true value of sunshine, the worth of a hug and a simple kind word. Esme walked so tall even when the other villagers had ridiculed and mocked her, there was nobody who ever did it better. Then, she was gone, one day, taken from him. She never gave herself up, and he was glad that she did not. Maurice thought that would have felt more like abandonment, but that left him with only one conclusion.

"My love," he whispered, speaking to Esme as he always did. "They stole your life to advance their own and stood on your bones as if they were gold, as if you meant them to have them. Once they took you from me, you were not there anymore, not in the still heart or closed eyes. Yet, I find you every day, every moment I open my heart to feel. You are in what you loved—sunshine and kindness. You always were love and you still are. So though, your face haunts me in my nightmares, love, always stay near me. Stay in the warm rays every day that I live in, and then it is that I will come to you, bringing you my love. All that I have is yours, Esme, and it always will be. Always." Maurice's voice cracked and wavered slightly as he swallowed back the lump forming in his throat and fought back his welling tears that threatened to spill over.

If Esme were here, she would know what to do to save their daughter.

"I recall how you walked over the earth, like the soles of your feet kissed it so lightly. You were my heaven, my haven, the only one who could see past my flaws to what dwelt inside. Wherever you were was home to me, your voice the only salve that could erase the hurt. Though you are gone, beloved, I seek you still and I will persevere, as always. I guess that means you haunt me, but only in ways, I need to breathe, only in ways I need to keep this heart of mine beating. I do it for our daughter, Esme. She is beautiful, just like you were. Are," he corrected himself quickly, still holding onto that last shred of hope that his wife was still alive, waiting for him somewhere out there. "I have beautiful days, I love and I feel the warmth of the sun. To say, "I wish you were here," sounds like something one of Belle's favorite poets would have written, but that is all I wish for. To have you at my side again, and Belle home safely is a dream."

Maurice was met with silence. Nevertheless, he continued talking. If he ceased talking to his wife, then his thoughts would linger on what he did to Belle, and he could not cope with that right now. By God, he would find a way to get her out, even if it meant his life. "There are days I fill with noise and chaos to keep your ghost at bay," he said, feeling a light chuckle escape his lips despite the immense heartache he was feeling. "There are days I call to you, fearful to lose you all over again. Every time my heart cries out, your spirit comes to me, and my emotions swirl faster than a child's spinning top toy. To feel your presence, and only see an empty room, to smell the lavender fragrance of your perfume and your hair is torture. To reach out my hand and feel only the cold air, shatters my heart all over again. Yet stay, please love, stay. I retreat to the chaos and the noise of my inventions because it is a distraction for me, because my love is so strong for you that it starts to break me in ways that are difficult to mend, and tonight, the last fragment of my broken heart was shattered, beloved. Belle is…" he paused, not sure, if he had the strength within him to continue. "Our Belle is gone, a prisoner of some—some monstrous beast," he growled darkly. "But never fear, beloved, for I am going to find a way for our daughter to be saved. So here I stand between chaos and love, both of them hurting, both of them helping me. The difference is I could be happy with just yours and Belle's love for me, as a man, as a husband, and as a father, and your love, whole and well as it is, would be enough for me, and yet the chaos alone by itself would kill me. One day I will find the right road, the one that leads to your home, wherever that may be for you, and pray the door is open, and that you will let me in, that you will accept me back into your life, love."

Maurice had known when he was a young man that to love deeply meant to risk great pain. He had shied away from women for this very reason, until he met her. His Esme. Then he was lost. No longer the master of his own fate, he was now a mere puppet, reduced to practically sand beneath her fingertips as they courted, eventually married and were blessed with their daughter, Belle. Appropriately named, for as Belle grew, she grew into her beauty, and became the spitting image of her mother. Different shade of hair, but other than that, they were practically identical in looks.

When Esme had been forcefully taken from him, their little town had been under siege at the time, the women rounded up and arrested for sorcery and witchcraft thanks to allegations of someone practicing magic in the villages nearby. That was so many years ago, Esme had been only twenty-five, and now all he had left of his wife was his memories, and of course, their daughter. Maurice felt his eyes water and he could not stop himself. His tears were not quiet and controlled; they fell fast as he sobbed to draw breath. In a fit of agitation, he kicked the front of the carriage wall, hoping it would be enough to provoke the driver to turn around back to that monster's castle and demand the creature release his daughter immediately, or else…

His lungs heaved and he knew there was no cure for his heart. He had never looked at another or wanted another, but his Esme, and now their only child was in the clutches of some godforsaken monster that came from the very depths of Hell itself, a Beast.

His great love had departed and he must find a way forwards. For Belle's sake. He could see his wife in Belle every time he looked into his daughter's eyes and this reflection brought Maurice both comfort and pain. She was alive but gone. He stayed with his head bowed until his face had been dried by the wind coming in from the carriage's windows and his composure slightly regained. It was his pain and he would keep it, it was the intensity of this heartache that proved the strength of their bond and he could not bear to feel any less than that. If he didn't, then just kill him now.

"Get out," growled a man's voice, the carriage's driver's as the door wrenched open and Maurice was shoved violently to the dirt road, the inventor and painter's pleas for the man to take him back to the castle falling on deaf ears as he swiftly departed, kicking the horse into motion, leaving the old man in the dirt where he belonged.

As he stood shakily to his feet, the nausea swirled unrestrained in his empty stomach. His head swam with half-formed regrets. His heart felt as if his blood had run cold and become tar as it struggled to keep a steady beat. His melancholy mood hung over him like a black thundercloud, raining his personal sorrow down on him whenever he went. His heartache was like a wolf eating at his chest, tearing its way to his trembling heart. It threatened to devour him, to eat him whole and leave nothing but scraps. However, for Belle's sake, he would rebuild himself and fight off the wolf, but right now, he did not know how. Therefore, he did his best to ignore it. Maurice found his feet aimlessly shuffling towards the village tavern, ignoring the stunned look of the other patrons sitting at the bar with tankards of beer in their hands, untouched food on their plates.

Maurice never came into the tavern, if at all, for a drink. He merely grunted n response as he found a table in a corner of the establishment and thought it sufficient. The bartender, a kind enough fellow by the name of Pierre, came over, asking him what he would like. "The strongest ale you have, friend," he muttered darkly in response.

The bartender eyed him with a cautious eye as he rolled up his sleeves, wiping a tankard with a dishrag. "Are you sure you're all right, Maurice? It is just…we don't see you in here that much, is all? What's the ah…the occasion for your visit tonight?"

Maurice shot Pierre a dark look. "Been meaning to fix that. Bring me an ale, please, Pierre. I've had one hell of a night, you could say, not to mention the alcohol is the only thing that will stave off the pain in my shoulder," he hissed angrily, glancing tiredly at his bandaged shoulder. "My daughter is gone," he said at least, defeated.

"Gone?" said a new voice, a man's, booming and authoritative. Maurice stifled a groan and closed his eyes wearily. _Gaston_. The last man he wanted to deal with right now. "What do you mean _gone_?" Gaston regarded the inventor with an incredulous, angry look. In his eyes, he held a hateful disdain for the old inventor and painter. But it was so much more than that. There was a tenseness he wasn't even trying to mask.

Maurice chose not to answer; instead, his hands gripped the tankard in his hands, his eyes swiveling towards the back of his head in a distressed sense of a beginning headache. He tilted his head towards the ceiling as he took a long swig of the dark substance that affected him. He sighed as he felt his vision began to blur at the edges, his mouth sore from the amount of alcohol that he poured down his throat. Each drink offered seemed like a better and better idea, and before Maurice knew it, he was on his second pint. Gaston could only watch, dumbfounded, as Maurice drank.

At last, he finally decided to answer. "Belle has been…taken from me," he confessed darkly, not wanting to divulge the details of how monstrous the beast was. But then again…Gaston was the most seasoned hunter and a renowned captain in their village. Everybody worshipped and looked up to the man for his unrivaled skills with a bow and arrow and a rifle. As Maurice glanced across the table at Gaston sitting opposite him on the other side of the table, his eyes flashed with indignance and anger, much like lightning on a pitch-black night. He almost did not recognize the war captain.

"By whom?" demanded Gaston irately, his knuckles turning white as he clutched the handle of his own tankard, his grip ironclad and hard enough to break it. "Tell me!"

Maurice stared at the captain across the way, regarding him in silence for a moment. Gaston Dupont was handsome enough, he supposed. His raven black hair was thick and lustrous, currently tied up in a neat low ponytail to keep out of the way. His face was strong and defined, his features molded from granite. His dark brows were currently sloped downwards in a serious expression. His usually playful smile had drawn into a hard line across his face. His strong hands, slightly rough from hunting and working around the village, continued to grip his tankard tightly in anger. There was only one word to describe the decorated war hero. His lips were pale, thin, and his nose slender and rounded. A prominent jaw curved gracefully around and the strength of his neck showed in the twining cords of muscle that shaped his entire body; strong arms, bold thighs and calves, a firm chest and abdomen. He was an Adonis among the other men in the village, who each paled in comparison to him.

All it took was one look from Gaston and both women and men swooned at the sight of him no matter their sexual preferences and one word passed from his lips had even the straightest of men flushing shades of red that no one thought possible.

Adonis. That was Gaston Dupont.

"A monster," snarled Maurice through gritted teeth, his normally kind eyes flashing. "It—it took Belle," he said, hearing his voice rise slightly and the temperate in the tavern around him seemed to drop as his heart lurched as he remembered the way that creature had looked at its daughter. There was no mistaking the desire in its eyes. "It attacked me, I—I don't…it has Belle captive in a—a castle somewhere," he said hoarsely, gesturing to his bandaged shoulder, taking careful note of how wide Gaston's eyes became as the captain's gaze befell the bloodied bandages.

For just a moment, Maurice briefly wondered if the Beast had ever been a person. Or was a person. At least, Maurice liked to think that perhaps once, the Beast had been a person, a person with scars and bruises all over their body, red trickling blood running down his sides, the perfect picture of misery, reflected both inside and outside. Were the Beast a human, at least Maurice felt like he could stand a better chance against Belle's captor. However, the Beast was no human. Far from it. Nevertheless, he would die if he were to go up against that monster by himself. With a man like Gaston at his side, however, he might stand a chance in rescuing Belle.

Gaston took a swig from his tankard, quirking his brow at Maurice. When he spoke, Maurice had anticipated and even expected the hunter and captain to laugh at him.

"I'll help you," he said, his voice unusually quiet and uncharacteristic of his loud, boisterous self. Or at least, that's what he knew of the man from Belle's perspective.

"You will?" asked Maurice, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. Was this real?

"Yes," Gaston nodded somberly. "I—I care about Belle greatly, old Maurice," he confessed, a pained look in his eyes. "More than you know. The fact that she rejected my proposal a few days ago was…disheartening, to say the least, but I do not wish to see Belle harmed ever, in any way, and the fact to hear her own father speak of her being held prisoner in some nobleman's castle is quite disturbing to say the least."

"I just want my daughter back," the distraught father moaned, draining the last of his drink. It wasn't enough, and it would never be enough. "I don't know what to do."

Gaston fell silent, ruminating over the information he had just learned. "I will help you," he said at last, his tone thoughtful and kind. "But Maurice, I must ask of you a favor in exchange," he replied, his eyes agleam with a mischievous look all of a sudden.

"Anything," he promised. Anything to help get his daughter back home safe.

"I want to marry Belle," he confused, silently enjoying the look of pure surprise on Maurice's face. "I'd like to request your blessing for her hand in marriage should we successfully save her from this—this beast that you claim has taken Belle in return for my help." His offer was simple, and hung in the air for several moments as Maurice considered the man's proposal. He knew Belle would be less than thrilled at this match, but if he would bring her home safe in his arms where she belonged, then as far as Maurice was concerned, his daughter's hand now belonged to Gaston Dupont.

"Done," he said firmly, not wanting to discuss the matter firmly. He felt guilty enough as it is. Satisfied with the old man's answer, Gaston broke into a wide grin and got up from the table, sauntering over to the bar where the rest of the inn had been waiting with bated breath, wondering what the hell Gaston Dupont was doing talking to an old fool and wasting his time with someone like Maurice.

Maurice sat rooted to his chair, his tankard in his hands, frozen and unable to move. The guilt at what Maurice had just agreed to sat not on his chest, but inside his brain. What he had just done he could not un-do. He could make amends in other ways, in subtle ways, but confession was out of the question, even to the priests at Notre Dame. Not even one of his favorite priests, Father Darius, would believe this. Only in his silent prayers, could he speak his heart to God and beg for His mercy. He did not feel like he deserved the love of Jesus Christ but he clung to it and to his love for his wife, his Esme, his flower, and he hung the shards of his sanity on it. Maurice prayed that one day, he would feel removed for his sin, for forcing Belle's hand into marriage to someone that it was clear, she did not love or seem to show any signs of affections towards, but he hoped that one day, his daughter would forgive his actions.

His guilt was a stain on him, an ugly scar. He had to believe in redemption, to leave his deeds in the past. What he was doing, he was doing for Belle. "Forgive an old man his transgressions, Belle," he whispered to her, hoping that somehow she heard him.

_May God forgive me_, he thought, as he drowned his troubles in his drinks until there was nothing left.


	7. Chapter Six: Midnight Rose

Two weeks had passed since her imprisonment, and each night was always the same. Every minute that she spent awake, was a futile tussle of conflicting thoughts. She did not want to sleep, not yet. Her second voice chastises her, the longer she lay in bed the more chance of sleep she would have and the better tomorrow would be. The only things that could save her from the demons of her tomorrow was sleep. A rested mind will have the sharpness to make the kind of decisions that could be the difference between confronting the Beast for his horrible behavior towards her tonight and hatching a plan to find a way to communicate with her father somehow.

However, she could not make it past midnight. After a tumultuous few hours of vivid disaster-fueled dreaming, she was more awake than if a gunshot was fired by her ears. Commonly, Belle remained in the inkiness of her bedchambers, willing herself to return to sleep, unpleasant though it was. But she could not. She can lie still, becoming more irate at her sleeplessness, or she could rise and start her day well before the other servants were even roused from their slumber. Even when she did manage to drift off, the trauma to her brain was worse than being awake.

She sees him all over again, the beast in the shadows, taking her father from her. Then she was awake again, breathing hard. How can she drift off to sleep when all it did for her was unlock the doors that her demons hid behind? Belle envied those who sleep with the peace of never harmed children, pure and innocent as they should be. Every night for her since agreeing to remain captive in the Beast's estate was a battle of sleeplessness, a torment that must be endured rather than a rest to be savored.

Restless, Belle, in a fit of agitation and frustration, roused from her sleep, and dressed in a simple long dark emerald green gown with flared tow sleeves and a pair of slippers. She silently hated the fact that she had no choice but to wear the elaborate clothing bestowed upon her by the Beast, as though he thought that could win her affections, but she appreciated the fact that the dress itself was warm in the cold.

The inventor's daughter sighed as she silently made her way through the empty corridors of the castle, careful not to make a sound to disrupt the servants' sleep. Belle had briefly entertained the idea of escape her first night here. Before she could clear the woodland, however, the fortress dogs would bay to announce her escape. Should she be foolish enough to travel by night, the Beast would have sent huntsmen after her to ensure her quest to escape ended before dawn. Delay until the rays of the French morning and the guards will at least grant her the right to speak before hauling her off in manacles to the dungeons below, where she would no doubt endure its wrath.

To Belle, spooky did not quite cover her thoughts in regards to the Beast's castle, and eerie was an understatement. In the shadow, cast by castle walls thicker than her arm is long, a chill creeping over the grass outside. The scent of fall in September is laden into those gusts that pushed impetuously against the sentinel stone. Every flutter of a leaf caught her attention as she walked silently and swiftly through the halls, sparking her mind to turn the corner faster, loosening her tenuous grip to the agreed upon version of her new reality, this hellish nightmare that was now her life forever.

There was a time once had Belle ever encountered this castle in the past, she would have avoided. God knew the bloodshed that has been on the castle ramparts and soaking into the moss-covered grounds these past centuries. She very much doubted if the Beast cared or not if the castle fell into disrepair and ruin over the years of his curse. Not anymore, though. Belle, over the last two weeks of her imprisonment, had come to crave the experiences of the nighttime, when all others were fast asleep, when the stars kissed the sky, decorating the heavens above like the most exquisite jewels. Beauty beyond human creation, all for simply raising her eyes instead of watching the timid footfalls that took her towards the West Wing, a place where she was forbidden.

It was here that she discovered her thirst for life after sunset, seeking ghosts and whatever else preferred the world without the glare of the sun. In this shadow less black, her hearing was perfect, her other senses heightened. The once glorious castle of Prince Adam's reign had begun to succumb to the weather of countless years, or perhaps that was merely his curse. Belle did not know, but it saddened her. The cold gray stone was stoic in each storm that came to pass over the Beast's estate.

Belle paused, taking in a moment to take a peek out onto the balcony doors, to breathe in the cold autumnal air, allowing the crisp, fresh air to fill her lungs.

Perhaps once she would have staked across the castle, not caring for the noise she made, but no longer. Now each step she takes is soft and soundless. The iron grille she curled her fingers around the metal that has already leeched the heat of the day into the air. It is quite cold beneath her gasp. There was something about the lack of others up and about during the witching hour that allowed Belle to imagine—for her creative mind to surge with new ideas. In those precious extended moments, poetry came to her as if from the ether, in full form without struggle, arriving as thick as arrows on a condemned foe. But for Belle, this is no war. History blew in the soft breeze as the autumnal breeze of the night tousled Belle's hair, curling it gently and blowing it away from her face. In these nocturnal castle rambles, Belle could lose herself and find some form of inspiration to get her through her lonely nights here.

What more could a reader ask for?

Her gaze drifted to a solitary table in the middle of the room, near the terrace doors. Belle stifled a gasp but felt her eyes grow round and wide. Underneath a simple glass dome was a beautiful, blood red rose. The rose's thorns were wooden and each as large as a falcon's talon. They would cut your skin as easily as a knife; leaving you looking like you had been whipped. But Belle's eyes was drawn to the rose's almost unnatural blood red color, crimson in its garish red. It was beautiful…almost like…

"Magic," she whispered, reaching out a delicate finger to touch the glass, awestruck by the simple flower's beauty. How she longed to lift the dome and touch it, but she dare not. How was it that in all this chaos this delicate bloom should survive? Its stem was the hue of spring grass and its brilliant red petals so thin that even the air, made dim by the plumes of debris and dust, could shine through them, bestowing an unearthly, ethereal glow. The smile that had played at the corners of her mouth slowly faded.

This flower, while reaching for the sun, was a living corpse. It was alive and dead. Without its roots, its vibrancy would fade sooner than the daylight, unless this flower was no ordinary flower. Belle realized as she stared at the beautiful rose that she, like this floating flower underneath the glass dome, was rootless, like the bloom, cut off from support and her family. She had to act now, to make the right decisions or risk perishing before the moon had time to wax and wane one more cycle. She had nothing to go off, only Mrs. Potts' and Lumiere's advice that she do everything in her power to befriend the master of the castle in order to make things easier for her.

Ugly thoughts about the Beast began swirling around like a vortex in Belle's head, and she was not sure she could stop them. If she saw the Beast in trouble, she just did not know if she would help it. Belle imagined the Beast dangling from a high-rise tower or one of the turrets, and the only thing between him and certain death was her outstretched hand. But would she help him? The Beast took her papa away from her as if Belle were some sort of prize he had won. He was her very life. The Beast took her father away and made her miserable in return. Belle was uncertain if there was forgiveness in her soul because there was currently none for the monster. He knew what he was doing; he rode that demon dragon inside of him to new highs of cruelty and loved it. He thrived on it. The more she dwelled on it, the more she saw the Beast falling to the stones below, to his gruesome death, befitting for a monster like him.

Belle was raised in an environment of love and peace, thanks to her father, taught to show grace and forgive, but when her mind turned to thoughts of the Beast, none of it is there. He knew what he was doing. She was suffering and he drank it like a fine wine, becoming intoxicated on his own power to see her hurt. All she could feel for the creature was an engulfing bitterness, and with each passing day, it grew and grew, pushing on the side of her that was serene, enveloping her in a cold, toxic darkness.

"Well, I'm glad to see at least someone in this castle appreciates it for what it is, a gift of nature. Something to be cherished," a soft, quiet voice spoke up from behind the balcony, startling Belle and almost eliciting a scream from the terrified young woman.

Belle hurried out onto the balcony, shivering in the cold, and looked to her right and gaped. A beautiful blonde woman sat on a nearby stone bench, her back resting against the bench rest for support. The woman had beautiful auburn strawberry blonde hair that fell in graceful curls to her shoulders. The stranger gazed into Belle's soul, her eyes of liquid amber scrutinizing things inside of which Belle could only dream of seeing in herself. This woman, whoever she was, was a mystery. A dangerous, beautiful mystery, a stranger to Belle, of whom she was wary.

Yet, Belle found herself ensnared in the trap the woman had set. The moon poured down on the two of them, showering the women in beams of milky moonlight. They caught in the woman's curls, these moonbeams, making each auburn curl seem as though it was burning, on fire with passion and something else mysterious. The stars illuminated her skin; she looked deathly pale, as if her heart would stop at any moment. The blonde woman's face was very white, the color of a moonbeam, or an ivory carving. A snowy face, very beautiful, elegant, like a snow queen in one of the many fairy tales, and folk tales Belle had read over the years. Her hands too, were bone-white, but soft and elegant, as pale hands often are.

Belle could not help but wonder if she reached out with a hand to touch this woman, would her hand only graze the air. As if, she were nothing more than a ghost.

The woman wore a simple plain elegant brown robe that suggested whoever she was, she was someone of importance. Belle's overactive imagination began to go into over drive. Who was this woman and why was she here? Was she a wise woman, come to save her from the Beast, to offer supporting words of comfort, or better yet, escape?

The only flaw to the woman's spellbinding appearance was a nasty-looking bruise over one of her delicately shaped brows that looked like it would eventually leave a scar, but it wasn't what Belle's eyes were drawn to. No, it was the woman's eyes.

The stranger's eyes were the softest brown infused with green, as if she held the new spring growth inside. They were the forest floor and the gentle flowers, somewhere to rest and breathe. The woman's eyes were not wet like the barks on the oaks, but more of the soft brown rings that gave away the age of the few they felled. Combined with the graceful gentleness of her features and her pale skin, almost translucent in the moonlight, this woman could soothe anyone. A skill came to be more treasured than any other. The center of the woman's eyes was all pebble, soft reflective brown, not unlike Belle's own eyes, spreading out to waves of sea blues and greens under an overcast sky. The outer edge was rimmed in deep ocean blue, but the overall effect was of her hazel eyes, the brown elements being more dominant since they complimented her auburn curls and pale skin. This woman was definitely a beauty.

For a moment, Belle wondered if the beautiful woman clad in a simple robe was an angel. To Belle, an angel was not necessarily one with wings, but an angel was one who loves, who did their best to help others, who went the extra mile to do what was right even when there was nothing in it for themselves at all. However, angels, they still look after themselves, they can feel such exquisite emotional pain, and loneliness was a torture to them. They could still love in any way they wished or needed. Belle mused that this woman very might well be a messenger angel of God Himself, come to show her the way, to show Belle what the light was trying to show her, what she already carried an instinct for.

Belle was hit with a sudden realization. This woman was an enigma-not like that of books where the words are so plainly written out and flow from page to page, but of books torn, frayed and indecipherable, and Belle wasn't sure if she liked it or not.

"The…the rose," whispered Belle hoarsely, surprised she could find her voice. "It's beautiful, isn't it? How can one man so cruel care for something so delicate?"

The young blonde woman regarded Belle in silence for a moment, studying the features of Belle's face in a way that made Belle feel uneasy and not sure what to think. Nevertheless, after a moment, she spoke. "The Beast is a creature full of hate." She patted the bench next to her and motioned for Belle to joint her. With some apprehension, she did so, and gradually began to feel more at ease in the woman's presence. "Hatred is a thing that colors a person's soul black. It spreads throughout, shutting down all the other thoughts and emotions until there is nothing left but malice and hatred. It destroys a person, as it is destroying the Beast. Hate, my child, is the devil's path, full of dark magic that corrupts the soul. We shall leave its ash-strewn surface without a single footprint. Always the temptation to walk it is a platter of logical and compelling reasons, ones that boost the ego and frame false heroes. There is no prize worth the corruption of your soul. Hate only brings pain and the cycles of destruction upon us all. As for your prince…"

The woman paused, taking a moment to peer up at the starry sky.

"Why does he hate me so much?" whispered Belle, not sure where these questions were coming from. "I've done nothing to the Beast, but every time he looks at me, it's with such contempt. What have I done wrong to upset him so?" she wondered.

The beautiful blonde-haired woman let out a laugh and brushed a lock of curly auburn hair behind her ear. She turned and regarded Belle with some like amusement in her bewitching hazel eyes. "He does not hate you, Belle," she chuckled, observing the catch of Belle's breath and her sudden tenseness as she sat up straighter. Clearly, the girl did not expect the stranger before her to know her name and she had caught her off guard. "His hatred of you is nothing but a transformation of his own shame and insecurities. It is all that he hates of himself yet lacks the courage and convictions to face. It is far easier for the Beast to lose himself in the theatrics of his own mind, casting himself as the victim, than it is for him to even swallow an ounce of truth."

"How do you know my name?" Belle asked, unable to help herself as she quirked a brow and managed a nervous laugh as she looked at the blonde woman. She did not even know this woman, and yet, she knew her name. How was that possible?

The blonde woman chuckled lightly. "As a beggar, I see much and learn much during my time on the streets. No one pays very close attention to someone like me." At her remark, Belle raised an eyebrow in skepticism. This woman looked far too well put together to be homeless, a nomad, a gypsy. No. Something was not right. The woman continued on, either having noticed Belle's suspicious look and had chosen to ignore it, or genuinely did not see it. "It works to my advantage," she confessed, a sheepish smile on her face as she threw a kind smile Belle's way, that, despite her initial misgivings of this woman before her, Belle could not help but return the smile and found it to be, to her surprise, quite genuine. She glanced sideways and regarded the young brunette for a moment. "I think, in a way, you are like me. I don't know how it is for you, but I know when I was your age, I always felt like a weed in a garden. I grew bold and strong, often where it was least expected and apparently without an invitation. Those in my home at the time did not like that, you see, and I was cast aside. The simple-minded people, they cannot see what weeds are until they bloom," the petite blonde growled darkly, her eyes clouding over with something like anger, and for a moment, Belle felt her blood run cold. Though this woman seemed nice, she got the impression this woman was not one to be trifled with. "So little attention did my development garner, except for a few select few in my family at the time. Yet, for people like you and me, our fragrance is as aromatic and our nectar as sweet as any other is. Outcasts like us; we bring a creative richness that little smirk of a smile when at last our vibrant petals show and the gifts we have to offer received with gratitude."

"How did the Beast come to obtain such a beautiful gift?" asked Belle, her curiosity getting the better of her as she glanced back towards the rose under the dome.

The woman's smile faltered slightly and her face looked crestfallen. "It was a gift."

"You know the master?" Belle asked incredulously, finding it hard to believe that a beautiful woman such as this would ever associate with such a horrid creature.

The woman shook her head. "Not personally, no. I have heard of him, but as a woman of the streets and going where the wind takes me, I have never physically met the man." Belle frowned at the usage of the word 'man' to describe the Beast. The woman noticed her brow furrowed slightly and laid a gentle, reassuring hand on Belle's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Do not underestimate the master of this castle, Belle. Cursed though he may be, he was a man once. And though I only have to go off what I hear through my connections in this castle and hearsay on the street, I hold out hope for the Beast that perhaps one day, he will change, and his curse lifted." She caught Belle's eye and winked. "And who knows, perhaps now that you are here with him, you can teach the brute a thing or two about proper etiquette."

Belle opened her mouth to retort, but did not get a chance as the woman's brow suddenly furrowed in confusion and she stared off into space for a moment, seeming to be lost in deep concentration. Just as quickly as it had come, however, she snapped out of it and returned her attentions back towards Belle. "My child, I have kept you out here too late. It is much too cold for you to be out in this weather, and you wouldn't want someone to catch you out of bed at this late hour, wouldn't you?"

With a sinking feeling, Belle realized the woman was right. The two women stood, the blonde woman pulling up the hood of her robe to conceal most of her face in the shadows, a knowing little smirk gathering at the corners of her mouth as she impatiently shooed Belle back towards the balcony.

Unable to resist, Belle turned back around to ask one final question. "Will I see you again?" she called out gingerly, turning slightly to look back at the beautiful blonde-haired woman, only to be talking to thin air, as if she was never there. Almost like…

"Magic," whispered Belle, slightly awestruck and horrified. Before she turned to leave, she could not resist one last look at the rose. Drawing nearer, almost mesmerized in a trance by its beauty, she was not even aware she was lifting the glass dome off and had reached out a hand to touch it until a dark shadow loomed over her, casting her in darkness. Horrified, Belle looked up to be standing face-to-face with the Beast himself.


	8. Chapter Seven: A Brief Conversation

Lumiere watched with some form of amusement as his old colleague and fellow advisor to the prince pace irritably back and forth in his study, constantly wringing his hands together in agitation, his knuckles white. Tersely, every few minutes, his eyes would flicker back and forth between the pocket watch in his hand and towards the door, looking for any signal or sign that any given minute their master would burst through the doors. Old Monsieur Cogsworth was a right mess. A muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right eye, his mouth formed a rigid grimace. With his arms folded tightly across his chest across his broad chest, he tapped his foot furiously and all the while stared out the window of his office. Cold sweat glistened on his furrowed brow. With his hands clasped tightly in front of his stomach, he constantly fiddled with his knuckles, weaving his fingers in and out of each other.

Lumiere and Mrs. Potts exchanged an amused albeit worried glance, saying nothing, knowing for certain sooner or later the elderly Head of House would—

"This girl remains in danger the longer she stays in the master's estate and under his watchful eye, curse or no curse, I fear for her life," old Cogsworth practically wailed. "The master becomes more volatile every day the longer he remains a beast, and the girl, oh, the girl, she has quite the mouth on her!"

"Oh, Cogs, will you calm down?" spoke up Lumiere at last, sounding exasperated. "This stressing of yours will no doubt give you an aneurism. Calm down."

Mrs. Potts shot Cogsworth a withering look. "That is not necessarily a bad thing, Monsieur Cogsworth. She is outspoken, opinionated, and quite kind. Belle could do the master a world of good, but first they both have to give each other a chance, no more avoiding each other like we've seen them doing the past few days."

"But there is no telling what the master will do to the poor child!" protested Cogsworth wildly, almost looking unhinged as his dark thoughts crept into his consciousness. "I would not put it past the master to force himself upon—"

"The maître is not that kind of man," offered Lumiere, his voice surprisingly calm and light, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall for support. "Think what you want of the prince. In times past, perhaps he might have once dared to drag the girl to his bedchambers and go d—"

A loud cough from Mrs. Potts interrupted Lumiere.

"He won't do that to her," she said, sounding thoroughly disgruntled and wanting to steer the conversation elsewhere. "If he were to try, we would be there to stop him. While the girl is a guest under our roof, we will not allow Belle to be harmed."

"I do not trust the master to be able to control his urges!" retorted Cogsworth hotly. "I've seen him the last few days, there's no telling what he would do, and he..." his voice trailed off, lost in thought. After a moment of silence, Cogsworth opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the sound of a loud, ferocious roar echoing throughout the East Wing, originating from the West. "Oh, no," he groaned darkly. "What now?"

"Whatever it is, he sounds quite upset," muttered Lumiere, his eyes widening in shock as he dared to peek out the study door. He suppressed a snort as the girl's shouts mingled with the Beast's threats. Clearly, this girl was not one to be tested and the master had underestimated her, as he did not intimidate her. "I do believe this girl could very well be the one to break the master's curse if all goes well for the two of them," he chuckled, motioning for Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts to follow him to investigate the matter further to see what was going on.

Mrs. Potts lingered for a moment, her lips pursed into a thin look and looking thoughtful. "Perhaps," she said softly, daring to hold onto that last shred of hope. Mrs. Potts, as a general rule, hid her emotions. It was the way she had learned at an early age to survive in the castle. She figured her emotions were information she would rather not divulge, lest the master find her weak and dismiss her for being too soft, so her face often remained impassive, indifferent. But in the moment, it was different.

For the first time in perhaps his life, the prince had met a woman who was not intimidated and afraid by him, and dared to speak her mind and even put the Beast in his place, as he rightfully deserved from time to time. Judging by the shouting echoing in the corridor, she stifled a smile as now appeared to be one of those times. Before the head housekeeper could stop herself, a smile cracked on her face that hadn't been seen in a few weeks that made her look years younger than her age, and she walked a little faster to catch up to her companions. She just had a good feeling about this girl, and having her here with them couldn't possibly bode ill for the master.

Nothing would go wrong with Belle here. It just couldn't.


	9. Chapter Eight: Making Amends

The Beast glowered up at Belle, hate and malice in his eyes as he protectively stood in front of the rose under the glass dome. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" he bellowed, his guttural roar shaking the entire West Wing. In his empty scream was the pain of the indifferent, of a monster who sold his soul for ease and instead found hell. Belle saw through it almost immediately.

Belle stammered, not knowing what to say. "I—I'm sorry," was all she managed to splutter out. Her eyes darted back towards the balcony's terrace doors, where she had hoped to spot a sign of the mysterious blonde woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was on her own in dealing with the Beast.

"GET OUT!" he roared, and Belle felt her own temper flare to the surface.

"You treat me as though I'm nothing but vermin, and this stops tonight!" she yelled, tossing her dark hair back over her shoulders and huffed in frustration. Belle pushed her face closer towards the Beast, her mind ordering her body to fall in line. Retreat would be a disaster, a show of weakness, an inlet for the Beast to surge through. Nothing in her face betrayed her fear; it was a mask of defiance and surety. Her fear would need an out, of course, but there was a time and place, and this moment most assuredly was not it. She needed to be brave, and stand her ground. All the reasons for Belle not to do this come flooding in, as if her body just sent them a blanket invitation. She felt the soft panic that could either grow or fade depending on what she does next as her gaze dared to meet the Beast's, who was looking outraged and a little bit confused. Her fear will fade if she backed away, but then she would have to confront the master of the castle another time. It will grow if she let these thoughts swirl into a vortex of stupidity, eating their own tail. Alternatively, she can breathe slowly, let the thoughts leak into the ether where they belonged, and she would be her own boss. Belle sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and continued. "You want me to help you break the curse," she said, sounding defeated. "I can understand that, even respect that. But how can you hope to win my affections in this regard if you continue to call me things like 'wench' and 'whore' under your breath?" Belle glowered at the Beast, realizing she had effectively trapped him into a corner. "Don't think I don't hear it!" she shouted. "My hearing is excellent! This—this is unacceptable and it cannot continue! You are shouting at me because I dared overstep a boundary and break one of your precious 'house rules,' but I think it is you who overstepped by yelling at a 'guest' of your house, have you not?" she retorted hotly, her hands on her hips.

The Beast said nothing. Belle could tell she had rendered him speechless. When he spoke at last, his voice was terse, hard, even. "What is it that you want, Belle? A truce?" he growled through gritted teeth, pacing the floor of the wing irritably, and occasionally casting a seething look of hate towards the red rose under the dome. "You stand there with the audacity to torment me, when I practically asked you, no, BEGGED you, to release me of this curse—"

The Beast strode towards Belle, backing her against a pillar until she had nowhere to run, no other way out. He stifled a low growl in the back of his throat and bared his canines. "The nerve," he hissed. "Just go," he sighed.

"No," said Belle firmly, deciding finally to stand her ground on this. "Not until you and I come to some sort of—of agreement on this. I will help you, and…do what I can to help you break this curse of yours, but I want your word. No more fighting, no more avoiding each other. Let me help you. Please."

It was the use of the word please that caught his attention. He looked up blearily and focused his gaze a few feet in front of himself to meet Belle's eyes.

All he could do was nod. "I'd…" he hesitated, looking away for a moment. "I'd like that," he said at last gruffly, albeit begrudgingly. "More than you know."

With the Beast just inches away, Belle stops and just gazes, soaking in the warmth of the Beast's brilliant blue eyes, the only thing left of his humanity. Finally, after days of dreaming to get the Beast alone to finally talk to him in person and try to make him see sense, she raised her head and jutted out her chin defiantly. "Sometimes, Beast…in this life, there are no good moves. However, I would like to think otherwise. I think, by helping you, I can make a world of difference. If not for you, then for your servants, at least." Belle nodded her head in agreement and quickly fled the West Wing, the skirts of her dress billowing behind her as she scurried back towards her bedchambers before anything else could happen tonight.

Every muscle in her body felt tight, sprung for action and she could not seem to will her legs to move fast enough. Her body screamed at her for Belle to sprint down the spiral staircase towards the exit, to get Phillippe, get out of this wretched castle, and go home to her father. Even her face felt tight, like smiling just was not an option, even though she had taken the first step in doing what the mysterious blonde woman suggested and attempting to establish some kind of a connection with the creature, even if Belle deemed it a lost cause.

As she collapsed back onto her bed, not even bothering to change back into her shift, her limbs tingled and her brain raced in the most unhelpful of ways. Her new reality was still so foreign to her. Belle tried to focus her breathing, but the anxiety of what she had suggested to the Beast, that they set aside their differences and try to become, dare she think it….friends, perhaps even more, sent her stomach reeling. She felt sick to her stomach but fought it back.

Her chest was hollow and then all at once, it was filled with this buzzing. Her face was numb and she was barely aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks. She was crying, but why was she crying? If anything, she ought to be celebrating her victory over the Beast. She was one step closer to seeing her father again. Belle buried her face in her pillow and let out a desperate scream.

"Help me, Papa. Help me. Help me." But no one comes. That is when Belle remembered, she was all alone. She strained her vocals but nothing came out, still she screamed, hoping someone would hear her. Suddenly, her body wracked with raw sobs and she shook like a leaf, unable to control her limbs. Fright consumed every part of her being, swelling her with terror. With every second, she practically felt the rise of her blood pressure, but she knew that this was the least of her worries.

* * *

Their argument grew from nowhere into a full-fledged storm. In his rage, he had been blind to Belle, to the delicate petals of her heart and soul. He had assumed he was right when he had no real reason to. The words she had spoken to him in such well-intentioned purity had triggered something within him that came from a place of fear. The Beast guessed it was the way he had been raised that had something to do with it. The words that calmed Belle scared him, and the words that calmed him scared her. But then he had seen her very soul in her eyes and he knew in a moment, that they both were, in very different ways, that they both wanted the same thing, but were lost in how to get there, blind to the paths and yet trying to see. That was when the Beast knew after she had proposed her truce that whether he liked it or not, they were destined to find that answer together and realize that with a budding friendship, and perhaps even love, that they would gain a new kind of sight.

In fear, we are all the monster, the fighter, yet if he could learn to respond with love and kindness, he could start to cure the monster within himself. He resolved in this moment that going forward with Belle, he would do better. He would respect her, would listen to her opinions, and allow her to help him. The Beast would speak to her in the morning when his heart was feeling more human. Because then he would find a way with her and the peace they both sought with each other would become inevitable rather than unfindable. The thoughts at what had just transpired were accelerating in the Beast's head as he restlessly paced the West Wing floor. He wanted them to slow so he could breathe, but they would not. His breaths come in gasps and he felt like he might black out. His heart is hammering inside his chest as if it belonged to a rabbit running for its skin. The room spins and he sits on the floor, trying to make everything slow to something his brain and body can cope with. He felt so sick. How could he have treated the girl like that? He had over-reacted.

Cogsworth and Lumiere are doing their best to reassure him, but they sound distant and muffled. Far away.

Visions of his father's face flitted through his mind and he tensed. He recall how his body jarred with each blow, how the pain seared through his skin and took away every feeling of safety the young prince had ever had. His father put his all into his strike whenever the prince had misbehaved or done something his father had deemed 'inappropriate.' His sinewy arm would recoil and snap back to his face, the impact delivered by an object rather than his own hand. Maybe at first, the prince had shed tears, he didn't recall. Crying was not allowed growing up. If he buckled, his father would tell him to stop, or he would give his son something to cry about. He meant it too. And this was the man who the prince had loved most in the world, aside from his mother. He had been the man who would lift the prince on his shoulders while he grinned so much. The prince had guessed these things came from his own childhood. The Beast believed his father had done his best in his own way. His father had been both his hero and his monster, but now that his parents both were deceased and he was….like this, he could not live that way anymore. He could not take love from one who hurts him, he just could not. He wouldn't. In the Beast's mind, he went back to where it happened. He wanted to take away the power of the painful memory for hurt, to prove to himself, and possibly even to Belle, that he could learn to move on. So he took the one he hated the most, the night he rejected the beggar woman and his life changed forever. Now when his brain goes back there this time, he tries to make himself heal. Perhaps with Belle here, his tragic story will turn into a good one. As if he wrote a good story overtop a bad one, and in time, the ink of the bad story fades away until only the good one remains. Belle was his last chance for salvation, his only hope at breaking his curse finally, and he could not screw this up. His painful memories of his past are books with chapters, deep and horrible ever since his mother's death, and so he left them on the shelf to gather dust. The Beast could occasionally remember them; pick them up if he needed to learn something, to gain a new perspective that would help him to create his own good story. He can use them to re-see situations through the lens of their needs and traumas rather than his own. He wanted tonight, tomorrow and every tomorrow following spent with Belle to be wonderful.

He wanted to choose what to write on those blank pages, to write his own destiny.


	10. Chapter Nine: Inside Stone Walls

Author's Note: For those that are following this, I'm so sorry for the delay! I have lots of ideas in mind, and want to make sure I get it right. I appreciate your patience and hope that you continue to enjoy the story. :)

* * *

She hated this. Trapped in her own circle of Hell with no way out. The prisoner was bound differently than the others. The manacles clapped on her wrists were permanent as long as she remained in her cell, only allowed out on supervised visits to check on her charge. The Enchantress knew as she glanced around the dimly lit stone walls of her cage, that these walls could not hold a prayer, nor a spirit. And so she called and prayed to the universe. She promised all the good things she would do for France when she was released, and at first, it appeared that nothing happened. Her magic was useless here, enchanted by spells, courtesy of her own colleagues of the arts.

Yet, when she does, it will be some random occurrence of happenstance, something the Enchantress could never predict. So, though her wait is tough and she longed for freedom, for the sunshine and the grass and to see her beloved again, the passing was made a little easier for knowing she had her invisible friend, and the knowledge she was able to check up on both her charges in the Prince's castle once a month, per the pre-arranged agreement with the master of this place.

Surrounded by bleak stone walls, there was nothing else to do but for her to stare at them. To look at the erosion that had started to chip away at the stones as time passed, or gouged out by other prisoners—anything to pass the time, slowly going mad, theorizing absurd meanings from the wall's blank stare. The air inside the prison was different ever since her escorted return from her last outing to speak to the girl. For a moment, the Enchantress was unable to put her finger on why. Then it occurred to her, the smell of sweat was gone, there was no sound of the others, of other people like her, people possessed with the gift of magic, nothing but the eerie silence. Her kind was being rounded up and imprisoned, studied for the purposes of the humans' sciences, trying to learn the ways of magic and use their powers for their own gain, their own benefit. The ones who chose not to cooperate were executed, burned alive on a pyre. The Enchantress let out a dark scoff and rolled her eyes, reaching up a hand to brush back a curl of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear.

There was no sound in this place, save for silence. But that wasn't the worst of it, oh no. This place was just walls, just walls and empty rooms. Here lay the icy grip of death. The Enchantress's eyes widened as she realized, for whatever reason, she was the only one left.

"What have you done with the others?" she hissed lowly through clenched teeth, slumped against the wall of her prison cell. She glanced around her meager room and sighed. She was, at least, allowed to keep it clean. One of the many benefits of being needed.

She was still being kept alive for a reason. He needed her. The master of this place was not done with her yet. The Enchantress sighed, her knuckles white as she clutched the bars of her cage, her cheek resting against the cold metal of the stone wall. She spoke to her beloved, as she did every day. One of the only things left keeping what last shred of sanity she had.

"Beloved, wherever you are, come as close as you can to the prison walls and whisper sweet nothings into the tiny cracks so that I can hear your voice," she whispered, closing her eyes and picturing her husband's face, the way he would smile at her. How she wished he were here with her. The Enchantress eyed the plain, simple gold wedding band she wore on her finger and fingered it lovingly, her eyes misting with tears as she remembered one of the happiest days of her life. Her parents had disowned her the day she had told them her news, swearing if she married the man, they would cut her off entirely. She did not back down from their threats and rid herself of her parents and their prejudices that same day. "I can forgo the golden beams of light; I can suffer nothing but bleak walls for company, but love I cannot live without. Tell me of the days to come, the ones where we walk in meadows, a feast of color for my eyes that have seen nothing but gray for so very long. Tell me of how we walk hand in hand to the river and wash our weary feet. Tell me of how we will feel the warm light of the sun on our skin and hug like our love is eternal. Tell me of how we'll watch the fish make their way through the cool waters before heading home to rest in each other's arms, always knowing a fresh dawn will come. Tell me, my love."

Unable to resist, the Enchantress pulls a broken shard of glass from the pockets of her brown robe, the only possession from her home she was allowed to keep when she was forcefully removed from her home. Turning it over carefully with the tips of her fingers, being mindful not to cut herself, she held it close to her face.

"Show me my love," she whispered, careful to keep her voice low. A bright sheen of light appeared in the glass shard, causing the Enchantress to shield her eyes from the blinding light for a moment, and then, just for the briefest moments, time seemed to slow to a halt as his face appeared in the mirror and came into focus. She smiled, tracing the shard of glass with a trembling finger. "Soon, my love," she whispered, bringing the shard to her lips and kissing it. "I'm coming." Carefully, she pocketed the shard in her robe's pockets, just as the sound of approaching footsteps approached her cell door. The door creaked open, and in stepped the master of the prison, of Hell itself.

Looking into his face, she wearily lifted her head, jutting out her chin in defiance and glared at him.

"D'Arque," she hissed through clenched teeth. "You and I had an agreement!" she snapped. "Let me go!"

The old man in front of her had a rather unpleasant smile on his face, which would not bode well for her.

"I don't think so, lovely," he crooned mockingly. "You see, my dear, you pissed off the wrong people when you cursed the prince. His parents might not be alive, but the man still has distant relatives who would seek to see your wretched miserable life come to an end." The head of the insane asylum fell silent for a moment, regarding the Enchantress, surveying her neat appearance and the cleanliness of her prison cell.

She dared to lift her chin to meet his gaze and look into his eyes, but it was like nothing was there to behold. Endless depths of ink, sorrow, and pain. She could not see the whites of his eyes nor the vessels that flowed through them. D'Arque's eyes were the depths of Tatarus holding a thousand souls, yet there were none to be seen. His eyes matched the way he felt towards the world: dark and cold. Their depth resembled Tatarus, a black hole in space, an air of eeriness and unsettling coldness emanating from his piercing gaze.

"You see, love," he continued, twining his spindly fingers together. The Enchantress could see different colored rings on a few of his fingers. "You are only still here because I allow it. You are only alive because I still need you, pet," he said mockingly, no semblance of warmth in the man's tone.

"Why?" she challenged hotly, feeling her temper swell. She bit back her retort and swallowed the hot fire seed of anger that was welling deep within the pits of her stomach. It would not do to lose her temper here, not now, not in front of D'Arque. "I've done as you asked, you swore to me you would let me go, that I could return to my family and set things right!" she yelled, no longer caring about her mood.

"You and I are going to capture that creature you call the Beast. Yes, dear, the one you cursed," he snarled, noticing all too well the dawning look of horror in the Enchantress's eyes. "He has untapped potential to be harnessed. I could use a creature like him for my studies, dearie. You're going to do it," he commanded. "And you'll bring the girl too."

The Enchantress froze. "No…." she whispered, her voice cracking. "Not her. I'll do what you ask of me, but leave the girl out of this, D'Arque! She's innocent. She's done nothing. You're wrong if you think I'm going to drag her into all of this, D'Arque. I won't do it!" She glared at the insane asylum owner. The old man had a fringe of gray-white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. He had a wizened face and a back that was slightly hunched. With each movement, there was the creak of old bones. He had the resigned look of one who knew that at his age, life had stopped giving and only took away. He was ancient.

He merely chuckled in response, having anticipated her answer. "Oh, but you will, pet," he crooned, reaching down and brushing back her curls over her shoulders. "If you don't, well…she dies." He laughed at her stunned expression, at the fire igniting in her eyes, knowing she was powerless to do anything to stop him. The very walls of her cell had a powerful spell placed over them, preventing her escape or using any of her magic against him, courtesy of the old wizard Merlin himself. "I thought that would get your attention, my dear," he chuckled lightly, turning his back on her to leave, his hands in his pockets. "You do this for me, and I swear, you'll be free, pet."

D'Arque's laughter lingered in her cell long after he'd left her alone, ringing in her ears and haunting her.

Looking at her love's face in the glass mirror shard again, that was all it took for her tears to burst forth from the Enchantress' dam of restraint. She clutched the shard in her hand tightly, not caring that the sharp point pierced her skin and caused it to bleed, crimson blood flowing between her fingers, crimson in its garish red. She cared not. The Enchantress was able to see a ghostly reflection of her face in the thin sheen of glass. She looked past her own world-weary eyes and stared upon her love's face that had been caught in a moment of perfection. He was smiling. It was the happiest memories that hurt the worst. They were the ones that cut her the deepest. The Enchantress focused in on his eyes, they were glistening with the twinkle of laughter that she once loved. Now, they laughed at her. They reminded her of what she had lost. She clutched onto the shard tighter, clinging to her memories, pressing the shard against her breasts, wishing to feel his head resting against her chest one last time, to look in his eyes again, to kiss him. It was in that moment that the Enchantress realized she no longer knew how she felt. She was numb, yet somehow in agony. She longed to be free of this prison, she wanted him back more than anything.

Memories were her soul torturer. No physical pain that D'Arque and his men could inflict upon her would cause near the damage that her own past would, and D'Arque knew this and used that fact to his advantage. She couldn't escape her memories or hide from them; they were her worst kind of monster.

The Enchantress was scared of what her past held, all the memories that never seemed to escape her. They were pinpoint needles, piercing her skin. She could not scream or fight back, she just had to endure the pain as the picture of her husband flashed through her mind. She had experienced pain before.

But nothing amounted to this. She could neither hide or run or fight them. Her memories were indeed her worst enemy and the thing that would most likely destroy her. Her memories would kill her before D'Arque would.

"Love," she whispered, speaking to him and only to him, as she did every day. "You flourished in life with such a young heart. There was nothing ever to be changed. You had figured your heart long before I could ever set my own. You stole my heart before I even knew it was gone. I knew from the moment I met you that my life would become a blur. No longer would I be able to count the days in which I wasn't happy. You, darling, would become my beacon, my love, my laughter, and my life. How I long for your lips pressed against mine one last time, the teasing chime of your laughter, the gentle breath of sweet nothings in my ear. Lavender, the scent of those wild flowers that you never failed to carry, thinking it would brighten my day to receive such a gift, and it always did." She sniffed as she felt the beginnings of tears well in her eyes. She coughed once and brushed them back with a flick of her finger. "If only you knew how simply broken I am without you. Memories can be so sweet, like the first budding flower in spring. But the emotions they awake, the remembrance of joyful times long ago, makes me feel hollow inside. Not a day goes by that I don't miss the part of myself that I lost. You. I ache, beloved. I cannot tell you how loud my heart moans with every beat, how every day I try to move on, but my memories refuse to let me forget all that I've done."

The Enchantress drifted into an uneasy sleep, visions of her beloved swirling around in her dreams, always there, like always, but forever out of her reach.


	11. Chapter Ten: Who is the Man?

As December slowly came to Paris in its petty pace bringing frigid cold temperatures, Gaston's only refuge for warmth other than his home was his tavern. The tavern was hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, all of them competing against each other to be heard. The white walls, dark wood, and maroon carpet of the establishment somehow soothed the hunter's frayed nerves. Gaston had gone ahead of Maurice to stake out this supposed 'beast's' castle, and he had not been disappointed. The girl of his dreams was indeed being held prisoner against her will, but how to get her out? Gaston stood for the first time in so long at a loss, yet his resolve was absolute. He would save Belle from this monster, and she was his. A rescue would be enough, more of a tedium than anything else, but for now… His greatest challenge lay ahead of him, and for that, he would need a little help. The hunter had called ahead. Gaston wound his body through the warm bodies of the crowd to order a drink—his usual pint of ale. Before the drink was poured, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder from behind and he knew that D'Arque had arrived. The man was late, as usual.

"You're late," muttered Gaston darkly, grabbing his tankard and taking a seat near one of the tables in the corner, so that they wouldn't be overheard. "What kept you, old chap? Was starting to think you wouldn't show," he sneered, leering at the withered, ancient old man opposite him.

The owner of the insane asylum merely chuckled lowly in response. "I am a man of my word, boy, you of all people should know that by now, given the number of times I've helped you. I was…detained, I'm afraid. Could not be helped. One of my patients is giving me a rather hard time. She is having difficulties cooperating."

"What a shame," retorted Gaston sardonically, rolling his eyes. "You have your…methods of persuasion, however, do you not? Will she help us or not?"

D'Arque nodded. _Slippery bastard_, thought Gaston admirably as he watched the old man take a swig of beer. "I have given my prisoner no choice, Monsieur Dupont. She will help us in our cause to rid the world of these freaks, or she will suffer greatly," he said at last, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief he procured from his coat pocket. "She will rue the day she ever dared to try to defy me."

"You're not afraid of her turning against you?" Gaston asked incredulously. "A creature like her, with all her powers and magic can do anything she wants!"

D'Arque smiled curtly. "Not around me she can't," he sneered. "She knows full well the risks if she were to try anything…_inappropriate_. I have arranged for her and me to go to the prince's estate in two days' time. I take the Beast to my establishment and study the creature, you take the girl for yourself, do with her what you will, I keep my prisoner, everyone wins," he chuckled, reaching for his tankard and taking another long swig.

"That's it?" asked Gaston bluntly, raising a thick eyebrow at the insane asylum owner, studying him with a carefully trained eye, searching the man's soulless eyes for any sign of deceit or malicious intent. "That's all?"

The old man nodded. "That's all," he said simply, shrugging his shoulders. He drained the last of his drink in one go and stood to his feet, turning to leave. "If that is all, Dupont, I don't usually leave the asylum in the middle of the night, but given the urgency with which you insisted we meet…"

"Say no more," sighed Gaston, tossing a pouch full of gold coins to the man, where he caught it in mid-air. He gave the hunter a curt nod and left.

Gaston sat alone in the tavern for a change, ruminating over the latest developments in his mind. A dangerous habit, he knew, to be thinking like this, but his bride's future well-being depended on him being successful.

"You will be mine, Belle," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You'll see."

* * *

The dress one of the maids had found for Belle fit her perfectly and was truly a thing of beauty, the wide skirts flowed and breathed with her movements. A yellow ball gown made of the finest silks and satin. Mrs. Potts had curled Belle's hair and found for her a necklace and a pair of earrings made of the finest gold and jade to accentuate the overall look. A light natural salve had been applied to Belle's lips, emphasizing their fullness, and by the time Mrs. Potts and the others had finished with Belle, she hardly recognized herself in the mirror. She felt foreign, but even she had to admit, even if it was just the once, she liked it, feeling beautiful.

As she waited for the Beast to show, she ruminated over the last few weeks. Ever since their confrontation, he had made great efforts to change. He minded his manners, controlled his temper to the best of his ability. Every now and again, he was prone to an outburst, but largely, they were fewer and far between than they had been prior to Belle's arrival, much to the servants' relief. He had taken great pleasure in gifting her his library, the largest library with the vastest collection of books she had ever seen. She had spent many of her days wandering the place, doing her best to start organizing the shelves by category and by author's surname. It was daunting, but a task that she loved and she knew the Beast appreciated it. Even Belle had to admit, there was something there, something new, and a bit alarming, if she was being honest with herself, but it was a feeling that she welcomed and longed for.

Belle smiled shyly at the master of the castle as the Beast approached, accepting his arm without even waiting for him to ask and allowed herself to be led out to the ballroom. When Belle flowed in dance, it was as if it were the only way her body truly knew how to speak. Verbally, she was guarded; physically she would shrink and fade into the background no matter where she was. However, here though, when she was with the Beast, her sensuality seemed to burst through into the most vibrant picture of a beautiful soul. As she twirled, her eyes caught the Beast standing there, him less adept at hiding in the shadows than she. He dropped his gaze momentarily before looking again, his head tilted to one side and a hopeful smile playing on his lips. Music, to her, was like turning back the clock, traveling and return to a previous life full of agony and loss. She embraced the music and in turn, the music took control of her movements. She found herself in a different world. A world of pain and suffering.

Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that took away the Beast's breath. Belle could feel her soul become one with the music and she unleashed her emotions into her dance. She needed this as badly as she needed to breathe. Her entire being moved with a purposeful clarity. With each stride she made, each step she took, it became more painfully obvious how much heart she put into her dancing and how punishing it was for her.

But no one saw the tears she let roll down her cheeks. Her father had taught her to dance, and oh, how she wished she could see him once more…

* * *

Gaston hid behind one of the stone pillars of the ballroom and it took all of his resolve not to shout obscenities at the monster holding Belle captive. It had not taken much for him to sneak undetected into the Beast's castle. He had left old Maurice in the woods to die after he had been raving stark mad about the Beast, the beginnings of a fever developing in Maurice. He had thought him mad, but finally having stumbled across the place for himself and now, seeing it with his own eyes, he knew he had been right.

"Maurice, old chap," he whisper-hissed angrily. "I'll never doubt you again. You were right. Belle's being held by a—a monster, Maurice."

Belle held so much promise, and here she was, dancing with this—this monster. She deserved Gaston at her side, watching over her, being her faithful protector in life, not this—this _thing_, this demon, this creature! But no matter. Soon enough, Belle would see the truth. That this creature was no man, nothing but a Beast, damned to spend an eternity in D'Arque's hell, Belle would be his wife, and he could provide her with the world.

But first, to take care of the Beast…

* * *

They finished their dance and Belle allowed herself to be led out onto the terrace balcony. A cold chill filled her lungs as she half-expected the blonde beggar woman to suddenly appear on the balcony again, but not tonight.

The night could not have gone better for the Beast, but now as he led the stunning woman out onto the balcony following their dance, the time had come for him to know. He had to learn the truth from Belle at last.

"Belle," he began gingerly, taking a seat next to her on the cold stone bench and watched affectionately as she took a moment to smooth the skirts of her yellow ball gown. She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder out of the way and regarded the Beast in silence. He swallowed hard and continued. "Are you...happy here with me?" he asked, biting his lip.

She stared, not having anticipated the question. "Well, yes, but…" Her voice trailed off and she looked out the balcony at the stars, her soft, shy smile faltering slightly.

The heartbreak in her eyes was too much to bear.

"What is it?" asked the Beast, taking her hands in his paws. "What's wrong?"

Belle turned back to the Beast, a hopeful smile on her lips. "If only I could see my father again. Just for a moment. I miss him so very much."

The Beast frowned, pondering his options. "There is a way," he said at last. "Wait here a moment. I'll be right back," he swore. It was not long before he returned, holding a handheld mirror in his paws. "Take it," he urged.

"What…?" she accepted the mirror, wondering if this was a joke.

"This mirror will show you what you do and do not want to see," he explained. "You need only speak and tell it what you want. The mirror does the rest," he added, with a distinguishable amount of bitterness in his voice. "It's…how I've kept an eye on my kingdom since the curse."

Belle hesitated, wondering if this was another spell. "I'd…like to see my father. _Please_," she added quickly, thinking that polite manners would be a necessity, given whoever had cursed the Beast could easily do the same to her were she not careful and minded her tone around such enchanted objects.

Belle watched, horrified, as her father's face filled the mirror.

He had been tied and bound to a tree with rope, his face pale and drawn, even ill. The edges of Maurice's lips were beginning to turn blue, and he was shaking and shivering madly, despite his restraints. His cough was a horrible rattling noise that came from the back of his throat. Maurice's face was beaded and clammy with sweat, and if someone didn't save him soon, he would die, either from prolonged exposure to the bitter cold or the wolves would feast on his bones.

"Oh, God, Papa," she whispered, distraught. "What happened to you?" she wailed, feeling the beginnings of tears welling in her eyes. She shoved the mirror back in the Beast's arms. "No more, please," she begged.

"What's wrong?" asked the Beast, concern laced in his voice. "What is it?"

"He's sick!" she cried, feeling her tears begin to fall despite her best efforts to stop them. "A—and he may be dying, and if someone can't help him…"

The Beast hesitated, reaching up a gentle paw to play with a stray wisp of her hair. "Then…you must go to him," he said, his voice sounding pained as he turned away from Belle so she wouldn't see the hurt in his eyes.

"What?" she whispered, her voice cracking, hardly daring to believe it.

"You're no longer my prisoner," he said at last, still not looking at her. "I release you from my service. You must go to your father and tend to him."

Belle froze, rooted to her spot and seemingly unable to move. "Thank you," she managed at last when she'd found her voice again. "For understanding how much he means to me." A new thought struck her. "But I promise to come back. You are not the only one in this world who keeps their word. I am a woman of my word and I vow I will return to you," she swore, the beginnings of something new swelling within her chest, sending warmth to the tips of her fingers. "If you will allow it, I would like to bring my father here, and…stay. Here. With you, if you will have us."

It was the Beast's turn to look incredulously at the woman before him. He could only nod in response, seemingly at a loss for words. Who _was_ this creature? "I'd…I'd like that," he said quietly. "We can care for him here."

Belle nodded swiftly, turning back to the mirror and bringing it to her lips for a gentle kiss. "Hang on, Papa, just hang on. I'm on my way," she swore, before reaching up on her tiptoes and giving the Beast a kiss on the cheek that sent a hot fire pulsating through his body. Where her cheeks had been, the skin beneath his fur burned. "Thank you for understanding how much he means to me," she said quietly, reaching up a gentle hand to caress the Beast's cheek. "I…we will be back," she promised thickly, pain and anger laced in her voice at whoever had done this to her poor father. "I swear it."

The Beast nodded. "Go," he encouraged, not unkindly. "He needs you. We can talk more…later," he said, turning away from Belle. She nodded, picking up the skirts of her gown and running as fast as she could, not wanting to waste any more time. Her father's life depended on her.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Into the Woods

There is a place in the woodland where the river meets the holly trees. The water formed a protective arc as those ancient trees that the Enchantress liked to call a fairy ring…and she still did. There was something magical about it, something pure of Nature, something that did not need her influence to thrive. In the middle of it, all stood tall and proud an old beech tree, gnarled by the years with heaven bound limbs that danced in the air. Underfoot was nature's compost, the leaves never swept but giving their nutrients to feed the soil, the roots, and the canopy above. In addition, always, there was the sound of the trickling water of the river.

The woodland floor was a million hues of brown, more than her eyes could ever detect, yet there they are. The differences were magnified by the moisture, variation on variation. Mingled in are some stones, adding their gray hues to the mosaics beneath her bare feet. She grumbled inaudibly to herself, the chains of her manacles around her wrist rattling with each step she took, cursing D'Arque for making her do this. She risked a glance backwards at the ancient old man who gave a curt nod as if to say, "Get on with it."

The Enchantress took a second to curl her bare toes over the forest floor. After the afternoon's rain, it was pleasingly cool, refreshing even. She crouched down to run her hands through the earth and watch it clump around her fingers. When she raised her hand to see the effect, she could see the runs of mud in the soft creases of her hands like mini-rivers coursing their way to her wrists.

"You're stalling," came D'Arque's harsh bark, suggesting he was growing impatient. "Such tricks won't work on me, temptress," he sneered, grabbing the end chain of her manacles and yanking her forward. "MOVE!" he roared, his voice surprisingly intimidating and baritone for one so old.

The Enchantress felt her temper swell. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, like her husband had always taught her to do whenever she felt an outburst coming. Otherwise, if she could not control herself, sometimes her magic just…exploded out of her, wild, unharnessed, and deadly.

"Can you really blame me, D'Arque?" she hissed through clenched teeth, jerking her head to the side to brush her curly strawberry blonde locks over her shoulder to keep it out of the way. "You've not given me much of a choice in that regard," she snapped, her eyes blazing with the power of a wildfire. "I do what you say, or I burn for having the powers of witchcraft. Admit it!" she yelled, feeling the onset of a storm coming, and there was no stopping it. "You killed the others! My friends! MY FAMILY!" she bellowed.

D'Arque. "Gaston was right about you," he laughed. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, let alone one like you, taken so cruelly from your own family. I see by the ring you wear on your finger that you still cling to your faith in that man. As if he could truly still love you, after all this time?" he mocked, his dark eyes cold.

The Enchantress lifted her head and jutted her chin out defiantly as she glowered at the owner of the insane asylum. "Nothing you say can upset me, D'Arque, so don't even try it. You know Belle will never agree to marry Gaston Dupont, that pompous bastard, no matter what you told him," she said, her tone growing dangerously soft, a note of pride in her voice as she thought of Belle. "The girl has spirit, man, _spirit_. Something you know nothing about. She will never agree to it. You're a fool to think she will."

The woman took a moment to hold out her hand, breathing deep like her love had taught her to regain control of her emotions. Pulsing from her left fingertips was a strange, bright light. She watched it flicker, changing colors from amber to ruby, and then back to gold. The Enchantress clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palm and her jaw hard and rigid, her entire body trembling with the effort to restrain herself and not slaughter D'Arque where the foul man stood.

The old man merely chuckled lowly in response. "Oh, I think she will consent to the match," he grinned; the edges of his lips stretching into a wide Cheshire grin that made the Enchantress feel uneasy. "If she doesn't, well…then the creature dies. She cares for him, perhaps even _loves_ him, though she knows it not yet," he teased, reveling in the look of dawning horror on the woman's face as she put the pieces together.

"Oh, God," she whispered, her nails digging further into her palms, bleeding and breaking the skin at last. "No…"

"Oh, yes," he responded jovially. "Come along, pet. Soon this will be all over, and you will be free to reunite with your…family. The fact that your kind is even allowed to _breed_ is beyond me. How our king allows it is beyond me. Were it up to me, your people would all be hunted down and killed like the vermin they are. Burned at the stake for witchcraft," he sneered, a look of disgust clouding his weathered features as he regarded the beautiful woman in front of him, watching the Beast's castle with a look of apprehension and trepidation in those eyes of hers.

"You're doing that anyways!" she spat, unable to hold back her retort. She felt the beginnings of a hot fire pulsating through her veins, scorching her bloodstream. She watched as the briefest flickers of fear passed through D'Arque's eyes, but as quickly as it had come, it was gone. "Why should I trust you to keep your word?"

"You can't," he said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders. "You'll just have to put your faith in me and see this through to the end. After that, well, it's up to you what happens. After all, pet, your family's lives depend on it, don't they?"

She glowered at him, wishing that if she could take these cursed manacles off, she would turn D'Arque into the very snake that he was before cutting off his head.

There would be time enough for that later, however. The Enchantress sighed, realizing the only way out of this was to do it. She nodded weakly, seeing no other way.

"That's a good dear, love," he crooned, his words dripping with sweet sarcasm. "Come along. If you're lucky, at the end of all this, maybe, just maybe…you'll see your beloved _husband_ again," he sneered.

She frowned, resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at the man before the sounds of someone distantly coughing caught her attention. Someone, a man, was in trouble. She tilted her head, much like a dog would whenever it found something curious, and strained to listen.

A man's deep rattling cough suggested he was very, very sick. She could faintly hear the girl's voice calling out to her father.

"Papa!" The girl was saying. "Who _did_ this to you?"

"G—Gaston," rasped her father weakly. "He…" But he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence as the distant howling of wolves interrupted his sentence, making the Enchantress's blood run cold.

Sensing her only opportunity to make this right, she reached out her hands and struck D'Arque across the cheek, watching in grim satisfaction as the old man let out a yelp of pain, staggering backward, and she could hear the bones in his ankle crack as he tripped over a tree root. It was sprained, if not broken.

She ran, not once looking back and ignoring D'Arque's furious shouts and threats if she didn't return to him at once.

The sky above her plunged into an ominous darkness, awakening predatory creatures out of their lair. She jumped again as a bloodcurdling howl of one of the forest's wolves made the hairs on her neck stand on end. Tree branches stretched out in front of her, forming a caravan of distorted limbs that seemed to reach out and want to grab her, keeping her close and trapped in this dense brush.

A vile pain spread through the Enchantress's chest like a deadly infection and her lungs beseeched her to stop running, but she could not. She drew in deep breaths, taking selfish breaths of the fresh air. Helpless, she stopped to catch her breath, risking a glance behind.

No D'Arque. Perhaps she was safe for the moment. Feeling utterly lost and helpless, she walked on, her bare feet dragging noisily on the carpet of lifeless leaves, each step triggering a rush of pain in her chest. In spite of her feeble condition, her lips curled into a smile as the realization that she had finally escaped struck her.

She felt smug at her little victory, she had really made it. She was free. Free from D'Arque's filthy clutches. She was finally going home, a home whose wings had not yet been torn by the likes of men like D'Arque and Gaston Dupont. A home still thriving, still breathing without restrictions, or so she hoped. D'Arque and his men had toyed with her people long enough for the sake of ruling a land that was not theirs to begin with. Their objective was to capture people like her—people with Gifts of Magic—and carry out unnatural experiments to harness their powers in order to create their own armies, invincible mutants that would allow corrupt, horrid men like D'Arque and Gaston to conquer the entire world.

The prisoners—her friends—that resisted or attempted escape had been tortured and eventually killed. D'Arque was blinded by his lust for power. He was ruthless and merciless. The Enchantress considered herself lucky to have escaped.

She finally reached the clearing, the edge of the woods before the Beast's castle came into view. She felt her breath catch in her throat as she froze, rooted to her spot and unable to move, she could only watch. _The last time I saw you, just one day in a lifetime—I wanted to take you by the hand and lead you away. I wanted to walk with you, talk with you, steal you away from everyone because you are mine, and I am yours. I just want to be able to tell you that I love you and know that you love me_. _I waited for you for what feels a lifetime. _

The girl, Belle, looked up, startled but a little bit relieved to see her standing, gaping like a codfish. "_You_!" she whispered, shocked, her brown eyes wide as a dinner plate. "I thought…perhaps I'd never see you again. Can you help us?"

The girl's father lifted his head blearily, struggling to see the new arrival in front of them due to the haze of his sickness.

When he saw her, his eyes widened and his face drained of color, hardly daring to believe. "_Esme_? No...can it truly be you?" he whispered, stumbling forward, reaching out a trembling hand as if to touch her, afraid that if he were to try, he would only graze the air, and his long lost wife would be nothing more than a ghost, a spirit of a happier time. "Where have you been? Where have you been? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" he demanded, almost sounding angry with her. The look of heartbreak in his eyes was too much for him to bear. "DAMN YOU! How dare you! And where were you twenty years ago, when I was still young? How DARE you come to me now, when I am...this..." he shouted, gesturing to his sick, frail self. When he cried there was a rawness to it, like the pain was still an open wound. The sobs were stifled at first as he attempted to hide his grief, then overcome by the wave of his emotions he would break down entirely, all his defenses washed away in those salty tears. When he at last turned his face to his wife, he was a picture of grief, loss, devastation. It was the face of one who had suffered before and didn't know if he could do it again. Then, just when she thought the breakthrough would come and he would trust her with his vulnerability, the shutters would come down, his emotion walled off behind a mask of coping. He would just wear it until everything was right again, he didn't know another way.

She felt the hardened walls of her heart crumble and rushed forward to catch her husband before his legs gave out and he took both himself and their daughter with him. "Shh, I'm here now," she whispered, reaching a hand to stroke his matted gray hair, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "You're sick," she said softly. "Don't try to speak, save your strength. I—I'm so sorry for what I put you through," she wept, her tears coming fast and strong. The Enchantress turned to Belle, whose face was white with shock, but seemingly more accepting than her father was. "I...I don't know how much Maurice has told you of me, but I...you are my daughter, Belle, and I swear, I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you either again. D'Arque will have to pry my cold lifeless body from you both before he gets me to go back with him." Esme relished being in his arms again. In his embrace, the world still stopped on its axis. There was no wind, no time, and no rain. Her mind was at peace. Maurice's love was pure, unselfish, undemanding, free. She felt her body press in, soft and warm against his ice-cold flesh and he shivered. This was the love she'd waited for all those years of being torn apart. Esme inwardly thanked God and hugged Maurice all the tighter. A love like this was to be cherished for life. Finally, she was home.

* * *

A/N: Oooh cliffhanger! I've had the idea from the very beginning and was really straining hard to keep a secret until this chapter. They're not out of the woods yet, though. Have a few more ideas in mind. For those that are following this, I hope you enjoy it! :D


	13. Chapter Twelve: Her Choice

When Maurice finally awoke after what felt like several uneasy hours of rest, his eyes were weighed down and he moved sluggishly. His worry became anxiety as he briefly wondered if that moment in the woods, reunited with his wife, was all a dream. His fever came fast, robbing Maurice of his strength. Shaking and pale, his transformation from determined father to rescue to his daughter to that of a sickly man confined to his home could not have been crueler. The sickness showed no sign of shifting, no hint of lifting to an even milder form, if anything his chills were intensifying and Esme knew she had to go back outside.

"I'm not going to lose our daughter again," she whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to her husband's forehead. He stirred uneasily in his sleep, but did not wake. Maurice's entire body ached, cheeks burning with the flush of fever. He would have cried for help, but there was no strength in his voice, just a whisper. His breath quivered in short, quick gasps every time he inhaled, his lungs having no choice but to painfully and rigidly take in the chilled air around him. He could not seem to stop shaking either. Sometimes it was rough, other times he could manage, but every time he would get close to sleep, a new spell of violent shaking would force him awake. Fires burn, fevers consume. Esme and Belle saw Maurice being eaten from within by the virus that intended to cook him, scorching his usually pale skin so red. The enchantress had never seen him so lacking in life spirit and the fear of losing him bit down hard. Belle made to hold his still fingers only to drop them in fright, shocked by his inner furnace.

"I have to go back out there," Esme said slowly, startling Belle out of her thoughts as she sat by her father's bedside. "Maurice is dying, and he needs a good dosage of yarrow or white willow bark or Echinacea to bring down his fever or he won't make it through the night," murmured Esme darkly, pulling up the hood of her robe tighter around her face. "I have to go back, and you're to stay here with your father and try to keep him cool. No, don't argue with me, sweet Belle," encouraged Esme firmly, seeing her like-minded daughter open her mouth to protest. "Don't open the door for anyone save for me, you understand?" she instructed.

Belle nodded mutely, but she could not shake the feeling of dread that crept down her spine like a spider leaving a careful trail of silk in its wake as she watched her mother disappear from her life. This had all happened so suddenly, she was still trying to wrap her mind around it. Now, just as quickly as she had come, she was losing her, yet again, perhaps for good this time. Only time would tell.

In truth, Esme had an entirely different reason for slipping out alone. Yes, Maurice needed herbs, of which she had already collected, but she was afraid she would not be able to control herself for much longer. Her magic was growing out of control the angrier she got, thinking of D'Arque and that Gaston fellow, who had helped capture her and imprison her in D'Arque's asylum. The longer she stayed around Belle and Maurice, the more in danger they were of being harmed by one of her outbursts.

She held out her hand in shock as it trembled. Pulsing from her fingertips was a strange white light. Esme watched it flicker, changing colors from amber to ruby then back to gold. She clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palms as she dared to breathe slowly, willing her breathing to return to normal, in and out like old Merlin had taught her all those years ago when she was younger, just before she had met Maurice. This was not supposed to happen. Not like this. The elders forbid her to have it. If they learned she was growing volatile again, they likely, not D'Arque, would kill her, deeming her a threat to their society and she would become too dangerous to be around, even around folks of her own kind, the ones like her who possessed the gifts of magic.

She sighed, slumping against the bark of an old oak. "Now what am I supposed to do?" she moaned, glancing around the woods.

_You know what you have to do, Esme_, came old Merlin's voice. She jumped, startled. "But how? I watched you die, old man,' she whispered, horrified, thinking this was another trick somehow. _I have my ways_, came his warbling, ancient voice. _You know D'Arque and Gaston will eventually go for Belle if you do not give them what they want. They want the Beast, and they want you back alive. D'Arque is waiting. _

Esme nodded, rooting her jaw and knowing what she had to do. For Belle. She and Maurice could not lose their daughter again.

With trembling fingers, she withdrew the small shard of mirror from the pockets of her robe, clutching onto the handheld mirror for support. Threads of silver wind of the edge in stunning floral designs. The glass shard was covered in dust. She held up her hand, steeling herself, feeling her facial muscles go hard and tense, and touched the glass. Immediately, she doubled over as a hot, searing fire pulsated through her sides, her mouth filling with the coppery taste of blood, and it felt like fire was rushing through her veins. Esme let out a moan as her vision shifted and the world erupted into colors, some of them not even on the humans' color spectrum, naked to the eye, save for those who possessed magic.

At first, it hurt, but then she suddenly felt…normal. Was that the word? Yes, _normal_. She lifted the mirror shard to her face and let out a tiny but triumphant smile. She had done it. Her powers relinquished, she was now nothing but a mere mortal, and if D'Arque wanted her for her powers, he was going to be sorely disappointed, and would have no choice but to do this his way.

She curled her fingers into her palms hard enough to bleed as she used her newfound strength to push herself forwards, back towards the Beast's castle, where D'Arque was inevitably heading to claim his precious prize. Esme had to warn the creature before it was too late of D'Arque. "This is my life, D'Arque," she hissed through gritted teeth. "And I will not. Will. Not. Allow you to take my family away from me again. You want the Beast, you are going to have to come and get him, and you are going to have to go through us in order to do it. I am not going back with you."

_This is my life_.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Curse Lifted

Gaston watched, feeling his temper rapidly swell the longer the hunter waited for Belle to come into his line of sights, close enough to where he could grab her. D'Arque's words of being cautious lingering in his head, especially hearing the unfortunate news that his prisoner had escaped. "Dangerous woman," he snorted, letting out a dark little chuckle and rolling his eyes, scoffing at that very idea. "Please. Women are delicate creatures. There is no such thing as a 'dangerous' woman. D'Arque, you old senile fool," he growled.

He'd followed Belle and her father the entire way to the prince's estate. He knew there would be holy hell to pay for what he was about to do, but he tired of waiting. Though it deviated deeply from D'Arque's plan, he could wait around no longer. He had waited for Belle long enough. He watched the beautiful brunette from outside one of the castle's balconies, having painstakingly scaled the walls. His expression was one of being forced to endure an unpleasant odor.

The hunter's gaze was unwavering and unabashed. Those eyes did not travel up to Belle's face or her slippers, but they followed her as if really focusing on something a couple of feet further away. Perhaps his introspective nature led him to be locked in thought as he observed, it was hard to know. But he made no gesture of recognition, no raised hand or stiffed nod at all. He kept quiet.

Belle quickened her pace down one of the hallways, searching for fresh rags and hot water for her ailing father. "Maurice…"

The young brunette had no time to react as he grabbed her.

It was supposed to be easy. He'd been following her the better part of several hours. But Belle had never been easy, she did not make it easy for Gaston as she fought, screaming and kicking. The other servants yelled something as she threw a pot. The kidnapping was over in a second. One minute the girl was standing in a kitchen filling a basin with boiling water from a cauldron, searching for a fresh rag for old Maurice, and the next, she was gone. Only one man saw something, but Gaston did not care. His kidnapper knew her well, and she would marry him if she wanted her father alive and relatively unharmed. Well…

That had been the plan, at least.

* * *

The trees were veiled in the lightest of mists, their trunks a somber brown with sable cracks that gnarled the bark. The Beast sighed as his eye traveled to the edge of the woodland, and they became silhouettes against a blanket of white, as if it were only daylight where he stood, as if he were encircled by twilight. These days, these walks were the only way he could take his mind off Belle, and even then, most nights, his efforts proved futile. The Beast prince believed that society was one of the worst things about society. Society claimed to prattle on about possessions meaning nothing, to say that objects did not count towards happiness. Then they turned around and rejected people like the disgraced prince, people who had everything, but weren't happy. He stood on the brink of something he could not quite describe. The weight of everything seemed to press down on his shoulders and he struggled to take even a single step forward as visions of Belle danced in his mind, as he revisited letting her go.

It was too much. All of it. And yet, somehow, he kept every step cost him. The darkness grew, the pain grew sharper, all of it seemed to only grow in strength and Adam began to wonder if things would ever improve for him following Belle's leave. But he never said a word—not to Lumiere, nor to Mrs. Potts. Sometimes, the prince wondered if that smile, his horribly fake smile, was ever seen through. If someone noticed the sad, broken look in his eyes that he saw these days in a mirror. If they could see beauty where he only saw the Beast. And then he laughed, a bitter, sarcastic laugh at himself. Nobody cared. No one noticed. They never did, do they? The prince had fought for years. And yet, he marched on…

It was time to head back. The cursed Beast Prince had not been prepared to see the old man surrounded by Mrs. Potts and Lumiere, the very one that he recognized to be Belle's father, the rose thief. He looked on the brink of death. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. The prince's voice faltered as he surveyed the mess. "What..?" The table had been overturned and there were books and pots littering the floor. Adam walked over the strewn books and pieces of parchment paper, searching for any sort of clue to what transpired. "What the hell happened here? Lumiere!" he barked.

"Maître, I am so sorry, but he took her!" Lumiere shouted.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Belle! She—she went in search for fresh supplies to tend to her father. She was reading him passages from Romeo and Juliet, and oh, how romantic it was!" he murmured, a strange look in his eyes as he temporarily seemed to forget his unique situation.

"Lumiere, old friend, explain yourself faster or so help me, I will leave you tied to this chair and locked in this godforsaken closet for the rest of the evening!" roared the Beast irately.

"A man came into the castle; he forced his way in and told her that he was rescuing her from you." The prince shook his head in disgust and started to storm down the grand staircase in a panic.

Prince Adam didn't know what to think anymore. The fear traveled in Adam's veins, but never made it to his facial muscles or skin. His complexion remained pale and matt, his blue eyes steady as if he were shopping for food in the marketplace. He let out an understated sigh and turned to leave, showing Lumiere and the others in the room he was not afraid to turn his back on Belle.

Too long had she tormented him. No more. "NO! Maître, you must listen to me!" pleaded Lumiere. "You must listen, she—she did not want to go with him. The girl put up quite the fight and he called her insane, saying that she had fallen in love with you, sire!"

That did it. The Beast froze and turned in his tracks. Did Belle love him? Lumiere gulped and swallowed nervously, taking that as his sign to continue. "When she refused to go with him, he got very angry, picked her up, and carried her kicking and screaming. I think she almost even bit his ear off."

Were this not a dire situation, at that, he might have smiled. But smiling at Belle's bravery was the last thing he felt like doing. The Beast frowned. "What did the man look like, Lumiere?"

"Young, strong, handsome. Black ponytail, Your Grace." Adam let out a growl from the back of his throat at the servant's description as he knew it was none other than Gaston Dupont, the slimy worm.

He knew stories of the man from the maids, how much of a womanizer he was. He didn't trust the man at all.

"Do you know where they went?" The Beast asked.

"No, sire. He threw her over his shoulder and headed down the main staircase towards the front door, young maître."

He let out a grunt and nodded his head, and started running. He had heard enough. Belle was in trouble and he needed her help. He burst out the front door and into the cold night air. The prince looked either direction, searching for her, any kind of clue where the pair had gone. How had no one noticed this man entering the castle? How could he have not heard her screaming? It had been a long time since he had tracked anything. At first, he had hunted and killed for sport, but as the years went on, it just made him feel more animalistic. The prince could smell just the faintest scent of Belle's perfume drifting off to the east, along with another scent that swirled of alcohol and the musky scent of the man's sweat. Another low growl ripped through his throat at the thought of whatever Gaston was going to do to Belle, to his princess… "Belle, if I get out of this, you're _mine_," he snarled. Soon, he saw footprints in the snow, and he knew he was on the right track.

The man must not have come on horseback, or if he had, he left the stallion at the edge of the castle grounds, for there were no footprints. That was a smart move, considering the wolves would be more likely to hear and hunt a horse than a pair of humans. The Beast continued to run, following the footprints in the snow. At some point, it started to snow. He could feel the fresh flakes of snow sticking to his matted, fur and his paws began to numb and tingle. When he could run no further, he paused for a moment to catch his breath. Every inch of him was cold and felt like ice and his heart was starting to harden in despair, thinking he'd lost them. That's when he heard the booming roll of Gaston's low voice. "You ungrateful harlot! I save your life from that wretched creature, sweet Belle, and you have no thanks for me! When I marry you, I'll show you what it means to respect a man! You will show me respect, or next time my hand flies, I won't stop!" Gaston's authoritative voice roared.

The Beast followed the sound and found the pair in the next clearing over. Belle was laying in the snow, with her arms bound together, a pair of manacles on her wrists, one of her eyes had been blackened, a trail of blood trickling down from one of her brows, the snow now crimson. His coarse whisky tongue licked at Belle's skin on her neck as he practically had her pinned down, his fingers entangled in her dark hair. Every time Belle closed her eyes, Gaston bashed her head backward onto the forest floor beneath, demanding she open them. She didn't want to, she closed them over and over, anything rather than watch his face light up with lust and power. Gaston became angry, his force less controlled, until finally blood ran from the back of her head onto the snow-soaked ground and her head lolled like a doll as she drifted in and out. The man had finished with her anyways. He snorted and whispered into the shell of her ear, "If that bite left a mark, sweetheart, next time my hand flies, Belle, I won't stop, dear."

The Beast craned his neck to see, and almost had to stop himself from smiling. The girl had practically bitten off his ear. He had seen enough. He lunged, not even thinking twice, tackling Gaston and wrenching the hunter and his former friend off the disgraced beauty. He threw his body weight behind Gaston's fist that edged closer to his face. It hit his jaw with such impact that blood pooled in Gaston's mouth, causing him to spit off to the side and toss his dark ponytail over his shoulders.

The Beast let out a guttural roar and with his own two hands, he grasped Gaston's head in his hands, bringing his kneecap up to the hunter's nose. There was a blunt crack and he released his dark-haired head. Crimson blood gushed from both his nostrils and his nose was twisted right as he screamed in pain, fuming.

"My nose!" bellowed Gaston. "You broke my goddamn nose!"

"Yeah," growled the prince lowly, feeling his voice rise an octave as his temper swelled. "Don't think I didn't notice your little partnership with the owner of the insane asylum. You forgot, old friend. My castle walls have eyes and ears. You dare show your face to me or if you ever come near Belle or this castle again, I can personally guarantee that I will haul you down to my dungeons myself, where you will die a slow, painful death for all the suffering you cause, and I'll get D'Arque. Make no mistake about that, Dupont. Your little stunts almost got Belle killed, so I'd say we're still not even, old friend," Prince Adam snarled through gritted teeth.

Gaston drew back his fist and it ploughed into his side; it was like hitting a wall head on. The Beast's guts smashed together, blood vessels bursting. The prince repaid this by punching Gaston's jaw, his fist colliding with all his body weight that he could muster. It had been a long time since he'd felt such unbridled rage. He continued this battering until Gaston slumped to the forest floor. His chest gently rose and sank with each shallow breath he drew. Panting, he stood triumphant over the man that had been his adversary. He knew just by one look at the battered, broken man at his feet that Gaston Dupont would not bother Belle ever again.

It was a moment before he realized he'd forgotten Belle. Mentally cursing himself, he hurried towards Belle, where she lay, stirring and mumbling something as she came to from passing out. "It's about time you found me," she whispered hoarsely, wincing only a little as one of his claws drifted upwards to touch the cut above her brow. "I…hoped…it would…be you, Prince," she sighed.

He froze. That was the first time she had called him by her title. Her wrists were sore, cracked, and bleeding from trying to escape the last hour or so. The Beast knew she was kidding, that she wasn't mad with him that he had taken so long, but he could not match her lighthearted tone in this moment. Not now. Not when she had…when she had…He couldn't bear to think it. He stifled the roar forming in the back of his throat and resolved if he ever saw Gaston again, he would kill the hunter, no matter the cost, his own soul be damned. "Are you injured? Did he…anywhere else?" he asked, feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt crash over him, that he hadn't been able to protect Belle from the worst of Gaston's rages, and now look at her. The guilt was like ice in his veins. It could have been boiling outside, and he'd still be frozen on the inside. He could not melt it on his own, nor shift it at all. He needed Belle to forgive him. Gingerly, he knelt and shifted her slightly in his arms, regarding the brunette beauty that had so very easily stolen his heart. The two seemed to have a silent conversation as they stared into each other's eyes. Belle looked away first, tears threatening to blur her vision, when a hand encircled hers. Adam's. It was soft and warm, almost reassuring her, as if the owner of that hand had sensed her hesitation. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear. "Belle, I want you to promise me something," he whispered, his expression utterly serious as he brushed back a lock of dark hair from her face. "I know you—we both said some things, but you clearly want to talk to me about something. So just say it."

"It's nothing," she whispered, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. "It's just…things were getting a little…intense." She paused, staring into his brilliant icy blue eyes, a myriad of different hues. "But I'm back, and I promise you this, prince. I won't be leaving you ever again, I swear."

"You really mean that, Belle?" he asked, feeling his lips turn up in a tiny smile as he shifted her in his arms, holding her tightly.

"Yes, I do," Belle whispered reassuringly. She bit her lip, hesitating for only a fraction of a second. "I…I love you," she whispered.

The Beast opened his mouth to respond but did not get a change as the sound of something exploding filled the air, and a warm fire began to pulsate throughout his entire body. He watched the light around him flicker, changing colors from amber, to ruby, then back to gold. He clenched his fist, his nails digging into his palms, and was astonished to see that he was slowly reverting to his human form.

_This is not supposed to happen, not like this_. His mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood, and it felt like fire was rushing through his veins. He could hear Belle screaming in the distance, but her voice sounds far away and muffled. He groaned as his vision shifted and his world erupted with colors. At first, it hurt, but then it felt like he was filling with a rejuvenated sense of life, a new purpose.

He pushed himself up off the ground, studying his now-human hands, which were trembling. He turned back to Belle, who had a hand over her mouth in utter shock and horror. He knew what she saw. Belle gaped open at Prince Adam, his curse broken, as she observed his sharp jaw, chin and cheekbones. On either side of his straight nose were two piercing blue eyes. His dark brows were graceful, but currently furrowed in a frown. All of it was framed by luscious blonde hair that fell to his shoulders. He didn't know what had happened to his attire, but his attire had changed to a pair of simple black breeches and a white linen shirt. Lifting his hand slowly, Prince Adam cupped the woman's face and as he did so, he felt Belle tense slightly before leaning against him, her cheek grazing his palm ever so lightly. The effect it had on him however was anything but insignificant. She was so beautiful; couldn't she see that?

"Um, what—what just happened to you?" she squeaked, but Prince Adam raised a gentle hand to her lips, effectively silencing her. He sank his hands into her dark curls as he tilted her head upward to expose her throat. He had always known she was beautiful of course, from the moment he had first laid eyes upon her, but now, it was as if she were the most beautiful thing he would ever encounter in his life, more beautiful than any living creature or flower. Somehow, he knew, right now, in that moment, with that look of wonder and fear and nervousness displayed on her face, that he would never again see anything as gorgeous as Belle.

His desire was reaching his limit, and he knew if he did not do something about it soon, he was going to explode, and for Adam, it obliterated every thought. Not knowing when it happened, his lips were suddenly locked with Belle's, kissing her. The start of the soft touch sent a strong feeling of warmth spiraling through his system.

Belle's eyes closed fearlessly, but the closure didn't let her see darkness, it instead created colors of fondness. Her tense nerves soon began to relax, her troubles, her pain began to melt away and the surroundings began to disappear leaving only her, her and Adam. This. This felt true. This felt good. This felt right. His lips felt so gentle so warm, she felt her hands begin to slide up his chest and encircle his neck, as the kiss began to grow heavy. Adam's hand slid off her face and tightened around her waist. She continued kissing him hungrily wanting more. She felt herself being pushed against the trunk of the tree, Adam's body pressing against hers.

The kiss continued, their lips moving in perfect sync and the kiss becoming more passionate by the second. Her right hand flowed onto his skin her as her left hand found purchase in his blond hair. Their lips parted and clasped onto one another once again with an adding of more pressure. Adam's hand slid smoothly onto her arm, lifting it and pinning it against the tree. Their kiss grew greedier, her mouth locking tighter. The heat flowing throughout her body began to grow as she felt his other hand slide through the skirts of her dress and onto the shirt of her dress. Reluctantly, Belle removed her lips from Adam, leaning frailly against the tree. Her eyes leisurely began to open, eyelids relaxed as she slowly sucked in the cold air. Adam stared back, his icy, glacier blue eyes calm. She rested her forehead upon his as her hand slipped around his back, pulling him close and cutting off the gap between him. Her breath was slow. In strength, she quietly murmured, "I love you". Adam's slow breathing emitted the same words. Their lips captured once more before letting go. For the first time in perhaps forever, his mind was locked into the present. The worries of his life evaporated, and his usual mode of hurrying from one thing to the next was suspended, as he had no wish for their kiss to end. Drunk on endorphins, his only desire was to touch her, to move his hands under her smooth layers of the skirts of her dress and feel her perfect pale softness. In moments, their soft caress became firmer, and he savored her lips and the quickening of her breath that matched his own. A kiss like this was a beginning, a promise of much more to come. She broke apart first, a small little wry smile on her lips. "Come," she said happily, holding out her hand. "Come and meet my mother. She'll want to meet her daughter's future husband," she teased, her gaze drifting downwards towards the beautiful yellow gold ring the prince had slipped onto her finger. He went with her, feeling happier than he had in a long time.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Beauty and the Beast

Two of Belle's favorite maids, Marie and Collete, hadn't stopped giggling for at least two hours. They wore simple long gowns of sage green, and a crown of baby's breath on their heads, the tiny white flowers glowing softly in the early morning spring light. They were like spirits of the forest, each girl wearing a smile for their future princess that could rival the sun above. Belle didn't know how long she'd been up; she just knew it was before dawn. Collette, Mrs. Potts, and her mother had been working on her since the crack of dawn. Her wedding dress was a beautiful white ball gown with gold floral embroidery made of lace. The sleeves short and slightly off shoulder, it was gorgeous. Forced to sit still for entirely too long, she fidgeted lovingly with the gold band she was to place on the prince's finger in a short while, while Collette and her mother painstakingly worked on her hair, working swiftly and expertly to twist it into an elegant loose bun, allowing a few tendrils to fall and frame her oval, thin face, and weaving flecks of gold accents throughout her hair.

"You're beautiful," her mother gushed, enveloping her in a tight hug as she waited outside the doors to the ballroom. "Never let anyone tell you anything else." Almost as an afterthought, her mother thoughtfully tapped her chin and winced. "Do you think that your future husband will forgive me for cursing him, Belle? I'd hate for it to cause any friction between the family, given everything that happened."

Belle laughed. "Yes, Mama," she whispered quietly as she snuggled into her mother's embrace. "You're the only person besides Papa that gives indefinite hugs. Don't ever stop, please. And as for the prince, do not worry what he thinks of you. He is much changed."

Her mother snickered, catching Maurice's eye and winking. "It is because of you that he changed, and for that, I could not be prouder of you, beloved daughter. Well, love, where else would I rather be?" In that moment, her mother's arms squeezed a fraction tighter, and Belle breathed more slowly, her body melting into her mother's as every muscle lost its tension to the spring air. This was life, real life for her now.

Maurice came to her other side, admiring their daughter in her dress, his gaze drifting downwards towards the simple yellow gold rings in Belle's hands. "Your prince made a good choice, Belle."

She knew he was not referring to their rings. Belle nodded, tears welling in her eyes as she hugged her father in turn and he offered her his arm, fully prepared to walk her down the aisle. Belle took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She knew Prince Adam was her happy ending, and he could be hers. Because around him, Belle had the serenity she'd been seeking all her life, and she hoped the same for her. She wished for him to take her in those arms of his because she wished to stay there, safe, warm.

"Are you ready, milady?" Cogsworth asked, glancing at his pocket watch. "Your dear prince has been waiting, rather impatiently, I might add, for his future queen," he chuckled to the brunette.

Belle nodded, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear.

"I've been ready, Papa." She could stall no longer. It was time. Her prince was waiting for her.

As her father walked her down the aisle to where Adam waited, Belle met his gaze and blushed. She had lived long enough to know that what the two of them shared, she could not replicate with another. This love, this feeling, was just her and him. Belle could travel the world and the seven seas; she'd still have to come right back to the prince's castle if she wanted true love. It's not that nobody else wanted her, or him, but that they were born to spark and travel the same path in this life. Adam and Belle were protectors of one another, confidants, and now true friends. The trust she gave him, that he in turn gave her, was what would keep them safe in this world. So, whether her heart beat another day or hundred years, it was his, and it would always be his. Words and rings were exchanged, and in her prince's embrace, the world seemed to come to a halt. There was no time, no wind, no rain. Belle's mind was at peace. How could it be that she had failed to see Adam's love for what it was before? Pure. Unselfish. Undemanding. Free. She felt her body press in, soft and warm against his chest. This was the love she had waited for, the kind she had read about in her books, prayed for. Belle inwardly thanked God if He existed and hugged Prince Adam all that tighter. A love like theirs was to be cherished for all time, for as long as they both shall live.

Finally, she was home.


End file.
